Tinder for the Flames
by Lindir's Ghost
Summary: Now into Part II: Following the disastrous events of Amon Hen, a desperate Aragorn unwillingly sends a badly wounded Legolas, with Gimli at his side, to Edoras in an effort to save him. But there are venomous snakes writhing in the tall grasses of Rohan, and Edoras might not prove to offer the salvation the ranger seeks. AU, non slash.
1. Chapter One: Pride before the Fall

Tinder for the Flames

'From this day to the ending of the world,

[...] we in it shall be remember'd;

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition[.]'

**Shakespeare's **_**Henry V**_**, Act IV, Scene III**

-(())-

Chapter One: Pride before the Fall

Aragorn felt so utterly stretched. There was little peace in the temporary lull of travel he was permitting them all, even when he wandered on his own to catch a meal. His lonely trudge along the shingle to the scant growth of true land soon lost its already floundering gusto, and he found himself seated on a large boulder grown smooth with the chastising of the wind and fervent enthusiasm of the river in flood. He rubbed at his temples, absently wondering why life insisted on placing him in these positions.

The Fellowship was in great trouble. Gandalf's authoritative presence was sorely missed, and the growing ripples of discord within the group were starting to tear it apart ... it was a bit like watching a bridge crumble under its own weight. Aragorn was the weakest point in the structure, the keystone that was meant to hold all others together ... except he was the wrong material for the purpose, dried mud rather than rock. He was trying, the Valar knew he was giving it his very best, but there was nothing he could do to quell the rising conflict within the group...

The hobbits were fine. All their lives, they had known each other, and barely a bad word had _ever_ passed between them. Indeed, the level of kinship between them was inspiring and, at times, touching. There was little they would not do for each other, a good and pure attitude to hold. Gimli, gruff as ever, seemed to have found his ground within the strange confines of the Fellowship: he had appointed himself the hobbit's minder, in a respect, guiding them in the ways of the Wilds and ensuring their education in such things was thorough and consistent.

It was between himself, Legolas and Boromir that the trouble lay, but particularly with the Gondorian warrior and elven archer. Their stay in Lothlórien had done little for their relationship. Legolas had left the company of the Fellowship, wishing to spend some time with his southern kin. Aragorn understood the need the elf felt, having been raised by elves himself. Being with his own kind and in turn away from the Fellowship was as close to healing his grief over the loss of Gandalf as Legolas could get ... Aragorn had actually been able to pick out his best friend's voice amongst the many others singing a lament for the fallen wizard one night, a pure and keening song so heavily strung with sadness that Aragorn found himself stirred to tears for the first time since their loss.

Boromir had found no rest in that fair place. The Lady of the Wood had unsettled him greatly with the depth of her knowledge of Gondor's failing stewardship, and he now perceived the elven magic that had touched him as something dark and controlling. There was never any love between Legolas and Boromir before, but now the levels of mistrust the man felt for his immortal travelling companion had reached a peak that the elf could neither ignore nor overcome, feeling it an unjustified and dark prejudice. Legolas receded from the group more and more frequently, not wanting the clashes of personality that nearly always occurred when man and elf shared a space. It did not aid matters that when he _was _there, his demeanour was more often than not cold and distant. Aragorn recognised his friend's behaviour for the self defence mechanism it was. Boromir perceived it was an aloof and haughty demonstration of elvish superiority, an unwillingness to mingle with those that Legolas – in Boromir's view – regarded contemptuously as below him.

And then there was Aragorn's own relationship with Boromir...

It had all been so much easier with Gandalf. He always knew what to say to defuse a situation: he could reprimand any member of the Fellowship, from the most youthful to the very oldest, a patient word here, a quick chastisement in Sindarin there, and all would listen and heed his words. Aragorn held no such power. The hobbits listened to him ... but they were afraid and completely reliant on those around them for support and protection. They had lived their lives in shelter and quiet, sleeping under the stars only when it pleased them. Being thrown into the wider world cast uncertainties on their futures that none of the four had ever needed to account for, and now they were discovering all too quickly that the lands beyond their Shire were marred with darkness and the wicked things of childhood stories really did stir in the shadows.

Boromir, Legolas and Gimli were in no such need of protection. All of them had been hardened to the world's darkness long before. It was protecting them from each other that was proving the greatest difficulty. Elf and dwarf – to Aragorn's amazement – were now getting along fine. There was the odd sniping comment thrown between them, but there was a steady respect beginning to form, which was both encouraging and bizarre. Gimli was well aware that Legolas' father had confined his own father in his prison cells, but he seemed content now to allow that insult to pass. Aragorn wondered if it would be a different story if he ever found out that, actually, it had been a sentry group headed by Legolas that made the capture in the first place; he certainly never failed to notice the quiet mischievous glint in Legolas' eye whenever the event was mentioned.

Legolas and Boromir did not fare nearly so well with each other. A challenging triangle had formed between the three: the friction caused by Boromir's distrust of Aragorn's leadership between the two men invariably resulted with the elf becoming involved, both through his loyalty to Aragorn and in defence of his own people. Out of respect for Aragorn, Legolas tended to back down when it was demanded of him, but Boromir did not have a decades-long friendship with Aragorn to hold dear, or with Legolas. Aragorn knew what the other man saw whenever he looked at him: an opposing force, a man landed with a title he was yet to be proven worthy of, harbouring a mistrust of his own kind and too keen a connection with the First Born. It offended him on the deepest level, and he could not see beyond that layer of hurt and disgust...

He pulled at his face wearily with his hands, and rose from his awkward seat. Flexing his muscles, he set off on his lonely hunt once more. For the time being, he would concentrate on catching dinner; his troubles would all be staring back at him upon his return, after all.

Silence dominated the camp space, punctuated only by the fervent snapping and hissing of the fire. There was only so much anyone of them could say about a river they had canoed down for the past few days, and it had already been said. These times of silence stretched between them more frequently of late, a jagged and pained period of time when the lack of activity showed them just how daunting their task truly was. For the hobbits, there had been something of a game to it, an adventure with the other free races of Middle-earth. The underlying seriousness of what they did had been deliberately veiled in a shroud of mirth and adventure by them. But the shock of Gandalf's death had shaken their reality: now the world was black and dangerous to them. This was no longer an adventure, but a lethal game of cat and mouse with forces bent on their destruction, and they felt that pressing danger just as acutely as they sensed the mounting strife between the four warriors.

Frodo had taken himself a little way from the meagre camp fire, preferring the solace of his own company. Such needs were becoming more and more frequent for him. In truth, there was little he wanted more than to be alone with his thoughts, the weary yet persistent antics of his cousins and watchful worry of Sam grating on his nerves. It was colder here, out of the fire's glow, but oddly soothing. He liked the idea of the darkness shielding him from the demons that hunted for the Ring, and him in turn. That childhood assurance of _if I can't see you, you can't see me_ was a thin comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

Aragorn was hunting somewhere in the surrounding wilderness. Whether he would return with any game was questionable. Frodo had seen neither hide nor hair of anything more substantial than a river rat for days ... but then, he was no hunter, and he figured if anyone would catch something worthwhile, it would be Aragorn. The majority of the remaining Fellowship idled about the fire, the three hobbits tired and subdued, Gimli chattering away to them as he ran a whetting stone over a small hunting knife. He did not know where Legolas was - a fact that didn't concern him: he _rarely_ knew where Legolas was – and Boromir was searching for firewood with the assistance of a torch he had made. The blazing stick danced through the darkness like some kind of wraith, and Frodo could not help the shudder that took hold for a moment at the imagery. Boromir's presence frequently made his heart cold ... he caught the looks from the towering man, the thinly veiled lust and desire for the simple gold evil he held too close to his heart. He wanted to trust Boromir as he once had, but beyond Lothlórien, something had changed within the man, and Frodo felt there was no going back to what once was for him.

As though in answer to his thoughts, the Gondorian's heavy boots sounded his coming, and Frodo knew, unerringly, that the man was heading for him, his suspicion confirmed when the orange bath of light fell over his huddled form, perched so stiffly on his rock. He looked up into Boromir's face. For the warrior's part, his demeanour was open and strong, the face Frodo had initially entrusted his life to.

"Why so alone, little one?"

A genial enough question, but Frodo's throat closed down on any words he might offer that would satisfy his taller travelling companion, and found himself saying nothing. Boromir did not seem to actually expect an answer, for he stalked away, dropping his load of gathered wood at the fire's edge before returning to the hobbit's side, heavily seating himself on the shingle and stretching his legs out, crossing his ankles. He was silent for a time, apparently enjoying Frodo's company, before: "I know how weary you are, Frodo."

There was compassionate warmth in the warrior's timbre, a friend giving voice to his concerns of the wellbeing of the other. Frodo felt a snake of cold trepidation clench about his spine.

"You should not be upholding this load on your own, Frodo," Boromir continued, ignoring the hobbit's uncomfortable silence. "It is neither fair, nor sensible, not when it wears at you as clearly as it does. It would be far wiser to share this burden."

Frodo cast a fleeting glance to the rest of the Fellowship for aid. They were out of earshot, dozing and complacent, blissfully unaware of his plight. He felt compelled to say something, the need to defend both himself and the Ring rising in his throat like bile. "Lord Elrond granted the task of keeper to me only, Boromir. I must accept his wisdom."

Boromir gave a snort, his contempt thinly veiled. "Wisdom! The wisdom of the elves would have us all surrender to ruin before this war is over. Don't you see, Frodo? It was trusting our fate to the elves that brought this dilemma on your shoulders! Is that fair, Frodo? Would you not rather be at home while those with the power to wield the Ring for good did so to vanquish the evil in the East?"

"There is no good to be wrought from such a device, Boromir. You would do well to set such ideas from your mind."

Frodo started at the addition of the new voice, his questing eyes finding its source in Legolas, the elf seeming to melt from the night like a lone star in a black sky. He felt a flicker of relief at the sight of the archer. The distant camp fire threw his features into sharp relief, and there was an unmistakable warning in his bright eyes, reflecting pale copper in the dim light. Legolas rarely looked at Frodo these past few days. They had never exchanged many words before, and for the elf's generally silent stoicism, Frodo found him a little intimidating. But there had always been a steadfast reliability to Legolas: he was there to protect and serve, and Frodo felt more than a little relief at the defensive attitude in his usually gentle tone ... clearly, he understood that it was not always the bow he pledged to Frodo that would be needed to ensure the hobbit's safety.

Boromir was not so content to have their discussion interrupted. A rumour of dislike played across his features, an emotion Frodo had never glimpsed in him before. "Is the hour so late your watch is over, Legolas?"

"My watch is not over, no," Legolas replied without hesitation, not at all phased by Boromir's dismissive resentment. He was standing at ease, his hands folded lightly over the top of his propped up bow. "It is my duty to guard from threats both exterior and within."

Frodo was stunned at the sheer bluntness of Legolas' words. There was no tact, no chance of graceful withdrawal for the Gondorian: the statement was thrown down between them like a gauntlet. He felt Boromir's rage seethe next to him, a terrible great bird wanting freedom, and scrambled away from it, moving for the light of the fire and safety of the rest of the company. The man rose to his full height, a slight tremble to his form. He and Legolas were near enough a match height-wise, but Boromir had more obvious physical power about him. Legolas was lithe and powerful in his own way, but he did not look, to Frodo's eye, as though he would have a chance should they come to blows.

"How _dare you_!" Boromir spat, stepping into the elf's personal space. His aggravated voice peaked the interest of the others, their heads lifting to regard the argument with confusion. "You pious wood rat! How _dare_ you accuse me!"

Legolas returned Boromir's glare coolly, not a muscle flinching at the physical threat the Gondorian displayed. "You presume much of me, Boromir. I never said anything of that threat being you."

Boromir's face bloomed dark with sudden mistrust. "Do not try to cloud my eyes of your judgements with clever words, Legolas. I know what you were implying: you insult me with your elvish trickery!"

For the first time, the elf's eyes flashed briefly with dangerous anger. "I assure you, Boromir, that I seek to defend, not the Ring from you, but you from the Ring, and in turn, Frodo from both forces. Do not try to so unfairly trap him in the middle of yours and its desires."

Boromir fell silent, his intense glare seemingly attempting to burn through his fair companion. But still, Legolas did not flinch. He returned the warrior's gaze unblinkingly, and a shadow of discomfort flitted over Boromir. "I understand what you hear," Legolas toned softly. "I hear the whispers in the night that beckon the desperate to what seems the only light of salvation."

"I am not weak," Boromir growled, his pride blanching at the implication of the other's words.

"Again, that is not what I said," the elf replied evenly. "I understand the intensity of the power in our midst, and I know you see its capacity."

A glimmer of hope flitted over Boromir's countenance. "Then you know this entire fool's errand to be folly. Surely, if we could together forge something similar in strength to the allegiances of old-"

"I know this to be the only course." Legolas' tone had become abrupt now, losing patience in the argument the man should have come to terms with long ago. "I can no more help you save your people than you can help me save mine. No creature should have access to power that unbending. I will see it destroyed before it corrupts these lands and their people any further than it already has."

Any thread of bartering was done with in Boromir, replaced only by the original contempt. He raised an accusing finger, stabbing it firmly into the archer's chest. "You cower behind your own conceits, just like the rest of your kind. The mighty elves, too engrossed in their own pride and falsities to stand up with the rest." Boromir stepped back, open dismay and disgust twisting his mouth. "Your naive youth betrays your ignorance!"

The rising taint of fear Frodo felt at Boromir's challenging tone crept along his spine with deft fingers, Galadriel's prediction ringing in his ears. Uncertainty gripped his shoulders as he watched the pair who had sworn allegiance to him seemingly a lifetime ago war with each other. He wished desperately for Aragorn's return, knowing that if the two warriors should come to blows physically, there would be nothing he or any of the others could do about it.

"'Naive youth'?" Legolas laughed. It was nothing like the usual lilt that poured from him in times of mirth as the hobbits were used to, but rather a harsh and cold irony, soaked in bitterness and resentment. "I might look a youth to your eyes, Boromir, but believe me when I say I have seen countless provinces of Men rise to greatness and fall to ruin in a blink. I have borne witness to wars of your kind that have passed into legend for your people. You speak to me of ignorance, and do blatantly display your own! It was the weakness of Men that brought all lands close to ruin before: speak not of ignorance to me, Boromir, for this entire mess is the result only of your own!"

Legolas started to turn away, made weary and unhappy with argument ... but he understood the change in tempo of Boromir's breathing and the ring of leather against steel, and he had already spun into the swipe of the oncoming sword as Sam voiced his fear into the night, his twin white knives clanging as they met the much larger weapon. "What madness has taken you?" he demanded, the shock and betrayal reverberating in his voice as his eyes asked the same of the warrior's soul.

"You will neither defile my honour nor that of my people!" Boromir hissed, the cold fury of his voice echoing in the bull-like strength he threw against the elf as his sword arched again, trying to get inside the elf's defences. Lithe as Legolas was, he danced inside the sword's long swipe and caught it deftly with his own weapons, again throwing the blade away from himself. But Boromir pivoted, recovering his balance from the powerful deflection to bring his blade back again with a terrifying might, forcing the elf to again defend himself. The meeting of steel blades and strength shattered the cloak of night-time tranquillity.

Gimli threw down his pipe, stumbling through the camp to the fray. "Legolas! Boromir! Cease this madness!" The dwarf fretted on the outskirts of the battle, horrified that such a thing was happening between allies, and frustrated that he could not get in there to stop the fight himself as his words fell unheeded. As much as he desired to get in there and pull them apart, he was wise enough to accept that his stature did not offer him the required force to bring two such powerful combatants to peace. "Stop it, I said!"

Legolas deflected another blow, appalled that the fight was lasting so long. He was not tiring yet, but it unnerved him that the man kept facing down his self-defensive blows and going for him with such murderous ire, fighting against him with all the gusto of an enemy. "Boromir!" he barked, throwing the knife in his left hand down to shield his flank from fresh attack. "I will not raise my knives against you! Desist with this!"


	2. Chapter Two: Sharper than Blades

Just a quick note to say many thanks to those of you who reviewed! I am very grateful, and it's good to see that people are enjoying the story so far. This chapter is a bit shorter than the first one, but hopefully you'll like it just as much!

Chapter Two: Sharper than Blades

It was only a small hare, but it would do for their meal in addition to their dry supplies ... it would be good for moral, he reflected, to have a decent cut of meat alongside normal rations. The heavens knew he keenly wished for some, anyway. Aragorn threaded his arrow through the animal, giving it a quick wipe down before returning it to his quiver. He had noticed Legolas spending more and more time reclaiming and repairing shafts of late. Aragorn was good at fixing arrowheads, whereas Legolas' defter fingers were talented with fletching. They would have to combine their repairing skills if they were both to remain sufficiently armed...

He lifted his head, the ringing of combating blades shattering the silence. Aragorn's heart stopped and the hare was left forgotten as he stumbled to his feet and with mounting dismay tore back in the direction of camp. He cursed himself fervently as his feet struggled to navigate the rough terrain in the moonlight for leaving them behind to face whatever evil had befallen them alone, praying that none of them were hurt due to his lack of care.

"Strider? _Strider_!" Sam's voice, lost yet close to him in the darkness. The hobbit had come looking for him, trying in vain to discern the dark garb of the ranger from the shadows of rocks and stunted bushes. Aragorn's feet stumbled to a halt amongst the tripping stones. "I'm here, Master Gamgee!"

The hobbit changed direction for Aragorn's voice. When he drew up in front of the ranger, the relief at finding him was plain on his face in the poor light. He was panting as much with anxiety as lack of breath. "You've got to stop them, Strider, they'll kill each other!"

_Kill each other? _Confusion and panic conflicted in his chest. "Who, Sam?"

"Boromir and Legolas – we can't stop them!"

Aragorn's feet started to propel him back to camp all the faster. How could this be happening, _why_ was this happening? What on earth had gone on in his absence to merit such lethal behaviour? He could see them now, fighting on the edge of the camp, the hobbits milling in panic on the brink of their combat circle. Gimli's anguished cries were like moths trying to break through glass for all the good they were doing. He was mere feet from them now, close enough to see the cold fury in the Gondorian's attacks and defensive aggression in Legolas' knife action. Aragorn drew his own weapons, plunging himself right into the centre of the fight, his dagger engaging Boromir's sword and his own sword catching Legolas' knives. He thrust man from elf with a strength fuelled by his mounting anger.

"What madness is this?" Aragorn demanded furiously, casting his enraged glare on both parties, arms remaining spanned to keep the two apart. "Huh? Have you both taken complete leave of your senses?"

Boromir was first to step forwards, halted in his advance on the elf only by the flat of Aragorn's sword against his chest. "I will not stand idly by and be insulted by an elf coward," he spat, "and I will _not_ tolerate an attack on my own people!"

Legolas' knives were lowered to his sides, but he made no move to sheath them. He had surreptitiously taken himself back from his combat partner but remained ready should the need for his knives arise again. "I returned the same slight you gave me, Boromir." A lace of bitter sarcasm lined his next words. "Clearly, what I said to you was far worse than what you said to me, as you decided it was so unforgivable as to draw your blade on me."

"That's what this is about?" Aragorn asked in disbelief, his eyes passing between his two companions in consternation. "You squabbled, and you chose to draw your _sword_ on him?"

"I will not tolerate-"

"_I _will not tolerate this kind of behaviour, Boromir! Both of you are of noble lineage, both of you were raised in the high courts of your lands, yet you bicker and pick like street urchins!" Aragorn shook his head at the pair, his eyes angered and disappointed. "You should feel ashamed of yourselves, both of you. Now sheath your weapons!"

Legolas hesitated, giving Boromir a furtive glance before obeying, weighing up the threat his unexpected foe might still pose. However, because he had entrusted himself to Aragorn's judgement on this quest, the blades sank back into their leather holders. The action was reluctant, but completed nonetheless.

Seeing that Legolas had done as commanded, Boromir grudgingly followed suit. He pinned his aggressive glare on Aragorn. "I will not be spoken to as a child," the Gondorian growled. "Not by you, not by anyone!"

"I treat you only as your behaviour merits!" Aragorn hissed in Boromir's face. "Children come to blows over such things, and if you insist on behaving like a child, then you leave me no choice but to treat you as one. And _you_-" Aragorn turned on Legolas, the archer's one raised brow betraying his surprise that his friend should turn his anger on him, "-I swear that tongue of yours has an edge keener than any blade ever made: learn when to keep it still!"

Gimli chose to interject, coming into their too-close circle. "Just take a look at who witnesses the defenders of the Fellowship fight amongst themselves!" For the first time, man and elf turned their eyes from each other to look about them, and both felt a stab of guilt...

Pippin would not look at them directly, his eyes averted beyond them into the darkness, as though looking past the problem would dissolve the threat of their argument. The fear was there all the same behind his mask of feigned ignorance. Merry and Sam did not know where to put their eyes, their own uncertainty of what this meant clear on their features. Only Frodo looked directly at them. There was a deep sadness reflecting in his blue eyes. Feeling compelled to say something with the faces turned on him, he muttered: "I'm sorry ... I know this only came about because of me."

"No, Frodo," Legolas toned gently. He bowed to the hobbit after the fashion of his people. "The need for apology lies with us only. You have committed no wrong here." Legolas cast Boromir an unreadable look before taking up his fallen bow and disappearing back into the night, making it clear that he wished to complete his watch and leave the company of the others behind him.

-(())-

There was no hare when he went back for it, the fresh meat probably stolen away by a fox or some such creature. In truth, he never expected it to be there when he returned for it, but that did not make his frustration with the night any less. Aragorn released a deep, almost guttural growl of rage, not so loud as to alert the rest of the Fellowship, but enough to ease a little of his frustration. This night was passing from bad to worse. He would make sure they were on the river again at first light: it was becoming increasingly apparent that the only way to maintain peace in their company was to keep it as divided by stretches of water as possible.

He made his way back to the camp glumly, not having the heart to attempt a further hunt in the darkness. He could see the thick shadows of cloud beginning to obscure the deep blue of the night skies, taking the pinpricks of starlight with them. It would rain tonight; the air had that smell about it. He was in no mood to get wet, but the heavens rarely paid attention to what those on the land wanted. He was a man of the wilds, the weather was something he regarded more as a fickle travelling companion than a potential hindrance ... but, right now, he wished fervently that he was no more than a regular mortal man, living in his own house and watching the clouds gather outside as he lounged in the comfort of a fire. Such privileges were not bound for the exiled King of Men, and he knew he had no right to such desires.

The news of the stolen hare met only with the silent disappointment of downcast hobbit eyes and irritated but accepting expressions from man and dwarf alike. The group were hungry, but following the let-down of the promised hare, their appetite – a completely different element altogether – left them ... there was only so much _lembas _they could take. Equally, there was only so much forced conversation Aragorn could take. He had not sat alongside Gimli long before he rose to his feet and left. None challenged his decision to walk off into the night.

His attempts to keep his footfalls quiet along the shingle were each futile efforts, and he soon learned that his caution was a waste of energy ... besides, the crunch of his boots on the loose chips of stone was vastly preferable to the pained company the others tried to keep. As he walked, the shingle gradually became punctuated with grassy tufts rising from the occasional patch of sandy dirt, and he found himself in the presence of some stunted trees, their structures marking themselves as separate from the night with a different kind of black.

"Mae govannen,Dúnedan."

Aragorn's body – to his annoyance – betrayed his surprise as he started, and his irritation was deepened by the triumphant cadence of quiet laughter from the tree's boughs. His eyes raised, only just distinguishing the shape of the elf from the tree: they were at once a part of and separate from each other, and those who did not know what they looked for would never spot him. "So this is where you chose to hide," Aragorn remarked, electing to stay with Legolas' Sindarin dialect, as much for himself as the elf.

"I do not class my method of concealment during a watch as hiding in the sense you are implying ... at least, no more than you do your lone wanderings, Estel," replied the elf dryly. Aragorn found himself grudgingly acquiescing with Legolas' astute reflection of his own chosen behaviour, and equally irritated by the cutting observation. His love of taking leave of the company of the others was something he did for solitude, on the face of it. Deeper down, he needed the temporary lull in their constant expectation, a thing attainable only by distancing himself from them. Leader, governor, protector, warrior, king. They looked at him with such anticipation of greatness; but the potential he felt within himself to _fail _that expectation was often overwhelming, so much so that he could not stand to look at them. He was Strider the ranger before he was Aragorn, Isildur's heir. Even the name the elves had given him grated his soul now... Estel. Hope. Clearly, he did not hide the essence of his feelings as well from Legolas as he did from the rest of the Fellowship. "Little escapes you, does it, my friend?"

"It has not escaped my attention that you are upset with me." Legolas chose to come down at that point, simply jumping from his elevated position and landing with less sound than Aragorn's attempted stealth had ever achieved. He lowered the hood he used to shield his betraying pale hair. The elf's blue eyes caught the scant light and threw it back at Aragorn with an ethereal quality, making the sad regret in them all the more potent.

Aragorn offered his friend an equally unhappy smile. "You disappointed me tonight, Legolas. In a way I never thought possible."

It was clear in his eyes that Legolas found the statement hurtful ... not so much the words themselves, but what they meant to his friend. "I know. And I am sorry, Aragorn. It was never my intention for it to escalate so severely."

"Intention or no, Legolas, you know how sharp your wit is when it is spurred by your pride. We both know you are greater than what happened tonight. Please, just walk away in future ... I have no desire to see a sword in your gut."

"And I have equally no desire to fell a human," Legolas returned, "but I'll defend myself wherever necessary: I will not sacrifice my immortality to a human's burnt pride."

Aragorn nodded his acceptance of Legolas' terms. It was not necessary to say any more of the night's poor events ... he knew the elf's own disappointment with himself to be as keen as Aragorn's. They shared a silence together; it was not the uncomfortable quiet Aragorn had experienced earlier, but rather the companionship of two friends who did not need words to enjoy each other's company. Despite constantly being in close proximity, such occasions for them were rare. Legolas, as much as he was enjoying the companionship, felt the need to shatter the temporary peace and bring them both back to their uncertain reality. "Boromir is not a bad man, Estel-" he paused, his following words seeming to stick in his throat. Aragorn looked at his friend with heavy trepidation ... he knew Legolas well, and he recognised the weighted tone of voice for all its prophesising quality.

"But?" Aragorn prompted.

"But I heard the Ring speak with Frodo through him tonight, and I saw its blackness in his soul when he took his sword to me."

Aragorn felt the hair at the nape of his neck rise at Legolas' words.

"Boromir's heart yearns to save his people: his will is noble and true, but his desperation for them is keener than his loyalty to us, and the Ring knows it has found a strong tool in him. It perceives us as a threat to its return to Sauron's hand, and it will not rest until it sees us all destroyed. Our Fellowship will falter to its will, no matter how hard we try to keep it together. Something is coming for us in the night, Estel, and I fear we do not have the combined strength to repel it." The frightening truth was, whenever Legolas developed these feelings of danger, he was never wrong. To ignore his words was folly. "I would not see Boromir come to harm, either by my hand or any other's, but if that is what becomes necessary to protect what we do here, then it is an action I will commit without hesitation." He paused, before: "You would not ask any different of me, would you, Estel?"

Aragorn cast the fair-haired elf a searching look in the darkness. What little he could see of Legolas' face was open and sincere: he was not offering a challenge, but requesting confirmation of what he thought to be required of him. If Aragorn bid him to under no circumstances slay Boromir, no matter what the situation, Legolas would obey it. It frightened him that they were having such a conversation in the first place, but he sensed the rising necessity in their need to be clear on the subject. He offered a shake of the head, and Legolas gave a single shallow nod in acknowledgement of the unvoiced order.


	3. Chapter Three: A Bridge Once Burnt

Chapter Three: A Bridge Once Burnt

Orange licked skywards, spitting red as it hissed venomously at the world at large. The ghostly dance of the flitting glowing tendrils enticed the fingers of a careless hand to touch, trying to allure with an almost siren-like loveliness. Just to see what it _felt_ like. Was it as silken as it looked? Or was its beauty merely a mask worn by some loathsome demon? He allowed the camp fire to absorb the complete attention of his eyes, not wanting to be disturbed from his reverie. None of the others attempted to rouse him, and for that he was wholly grateful.

His thoughts were black and consuming. There was no release from them offered by the fire, or by the silence surrounding him. As much as his soul shied and quaked at the depth of their meaning, and tried to cast them back from his mind, they insistently came back, unbidden, whispers in his ear as loud as madness itself. Was that what this was? Madness? Was it taking him as he knew it had taken others before him? The elf was right: there was a weakness in his blood, a festering and draining inability to stay the constant murmur in his mind. It had been there since he had first laid eyes on it in Rivendell. He knew it was a dark power, a weapon of evil and malice and blood.

He knew that the right mind could harness that power and make it great.

Did he have such a mind? He believed it so. His father knew the potential of the weapon to pull their people back from the abyss, and it frustrated him that others insisted on getting in the way of his pure ambitions to be their salvation. He would never be able to make them see: Frodo's shying denial of him and the ensuing confrontation with the elf were both evidence of that. His options were becoming more and more restricted with each passing day, and equally the imposing barrier the man, elf and dwarf presented was becoming all the more obstructive to his desires...

_Of what am I thinking?_ Boromir subconsciously lowered his head to his hands. _I couldn't harm to them! _But that was just it, though: yes, he could ... he had proven that when he raised his sword against the elf. He had meant it, every sword stroke, and had Legolas not been so quick at defending himself, his lifeblood would have soaked into the stones long before. The most frightening thing was some part of him had screamed against the action, crying out against turning a blade on one he called a brother at arms. It was all the more terrifying that he had completely blanked that small spark of reason, his rage stamping it out and acting of its own volition. Only now, upon reflection, did his actions alarm him.

The crunch of shingle announced Aragorn's return. The ranger offered only a nod of greeting to those few who acknowledged his return, and set about nestling down on a stretch less dominated with large rocks. Aragorn said nothing of where he had been, but Boromir knew he had been speaking with the elf. He only wondered what their discussion of him had involved. His eyes stared unblinking at the ranger's back. Aragorn did not look at him ... was the reason behind that through some guilt or other? Why would he not make eye contact?

"We will leave at first light," the ranger informed them, wrapping his cloak tighter about himself and supporting his head with his arm. "Try and get as much sleep as you can."

Aragorn's suggestion enticed only the hobbits to act immediately upon his advice, shuffling into a space they made for themselves in the shelter of the immense washed-up log that had been their seat. Gimli did not bother to move just yet, instead stuffing his pipe with what little remained of his weed. He had become rather partial to sleeping in the boat, seeing as he was not large enough to operate it himself.

"Where is Legolas, Aragorn?"

Aragorn gyrated his head to stare at the Gondorian over his shoulder at the quietly voiced question. His grey eyes studied Boromir's face in the fading firelight, a light frown playing over his brow.

"I merely wish to apologise," Boromir supplied, grudgingly seeing it necessary to explain his proposed actions. "Nothing more than that."

Aragorn sat up fully to give Boromir his full attention: he might be at odds with the man, but respect was a thing earned, not a divine right, and he needed Boromir to know that he offered it to him freely. "I fear he would not receive your company."

"But you know where he is."

"It is my business to know where everyone is when they perform a watch."

"You know that is not what I'm asking," Boromir returned, not appreciating what he regarded as a cagy answer.

Aragorn sighed, rubbing at his face before he could stop himself. "Boromir," Aragorn said wearily, "I know Legolas very well, and I know for a fact that, right now, he will not accept your approach."

Boromir snorted, a measure of disdain colouring the action. "Oh yes? And what exactly would he do to stop me? Set an arrow between my eyes?"

Aragorn felt a touch of anger at the other's open disrespect. "You may mock, Boromir, but I don't think you're that far away from the truth: I will not tell you where he is. And that's as much for your sake as his." With that, Aragorn lay back into his bed of stones, vastly preferring their sharp company to that of his conflict-rousing companion.

-(())-

The muffled clatter of tin was what roused Boromir from his uneasy sleep. The dying light of the camp fire cast a distorted orange hue to the raider of Sam's pack. It was Legolas, rummaging through the bag in search of something. No sooner had the questing hands found what they searched for – one of Sam's deeper tin pots – then he turned on his heel and left.

Now was his chance, likely to be the only one he would get whilst an apology could possibly still mean anything. The elf was a prince after all, and Boromir knew he should be well enough schooled to graciously accept the offer of peace he proposed to give him ... he knew as well as any how important the maintaining of relations was in this troubled time, and after personally doing so much to damage such allegiances, his head suggested that they should both willingly form a pact. He scrambled out from under his cloaks, leaving all behind with the need for speed being too pressing.

"Legolas!" he hissed to the elf's retreating back, trying desperately to not wake the others. "Legolas, I wish to speak with you!"

Legolas did not stop, nor did his step falter – if anything, it quickened. Boromir cursed under his breath as he stumbled noisily over the pebbles and rocks that the elf managed to navigate so neatly.

Through little fault of their own, the elves of Mirkwood were a distrustful people. So much so that the reception the Fellowship had encountered at Lothlórien would be considered an open welcome in contrast to what they would have received had those forests been Thranduil's. Too many years of their borders coming under assault had forced them to know strong caution, and they looked on outside folk more as threats than potential allies. The source of that threat held a nasty tendency to be men corrupted by the Shadow's whispers, and the occurrence was far too common to ignore. The elves had learned to perceive men in the same way a dog might regard a sleeping snake. Men had burned their faith, and there were very few now accepted into their kingdom. This distrust found its most solid foundation in the Mirkwood King himself, and Thranduil made it his goal to ensure his people were shielded against the threat imposed by the outside.

The attitude of his one surviving son was little different, for which Thranduil was grateful ... to the king's eyes, it was his own misguided trust of men that had resulted in the death of his eldest son, Baerahir. Legolas looked on outsiders with the guarded caution Thranduil had tried so hard to imprint on him, and it pleased him that he had successfully hardened his younger son to the dangers the outside world presented. Legolas was wary and shrewd, a competent leader of the Mirkwood forces and a fine warrior. He could not stand to lose another child.

So it was with considerable dismay that the king learned of Legolas' friendship with a man.

Not that it had ever been an easy friendship to undertake. Upon first meeting in Imladris, Aragorn and Legolas had not got on at all: the man thought the elf presumptuous and aloof, whereas the elf's long held belief that men were not to be trusted obscured his perception of Aragorn's qualities.

Elladan and Elrohir were instrumental in their introduction. It took great time and effort on their part to bend the prince's perception, but he grudgingly conceded – following many arguments – to their inclination of thought regarding the young man. But Elladan and Elrohir both had a motive behind their efforts: they knew a perilous path was chosen by fate for their foster brother. Whenever he embarked on his quest, he would need a friend on that lethal journey, someone to shield him against the darkness and ensure he reached the end alive. To their eyes, that someone could only ever be Legolas. They had known Mirkwood's prince for many years, and while Legolas was notoriously slow to trust, once both his trust and friendship were won from him, his loyalty and devotion were unbending. Aragorn would have need for such a strong character on his side in time.

Under the guidance of the two brothers, man and elf learned tolerance, then acceptance, then eventually friendship. Over the years, their relationship had become so solid that Legolas no longer looked upon Aragorn as a mere man, a tiny drop in his river of millennia, but more as a brother. He would, quite simply, do anything for his friend.

Boromir had no idea what he had lost.

Boromir's attack earlier that night had served only to reawaken the old wariness the elf had fought so strongly to ignore. It never sat comfortably with him, travelling with this rag-tag group – particularly with a dwarf at his side – but he knew it was necessary. Legolas had come to an agreement with Aragorn, and he would honour it. But he would never again turn his back to Boromir, or entertain his company alone.

When the light of the moon lapsed momentarily and his surroundings plunged Boromir into darkness, there was simply no elf there when the feeble light returned. He might as well have been following a ghost. The landscape glowed at him, offering him the silhouettes of scant trees and the hunched shoulders of river-flung boulders. Nothing more. He lifted his eyes, scanning the few trees for any sign, but there was no-one there.

"I only wish to speak with you," Boromir implored of the night, turning on the spot like a blind man in the vain hope that he might successfully sight the one with whom he wished to speak. But the sound of his voice was thrown back at him by the rising wind, lonely and small in the blank landscape. Clearly, Legolas did not accept his desire. Boromir was a proud man, and it threatened that pride to openly offer something as detrimental as an apology. He needed the elf to meet him half way.

But there was nothing, not the breath of a hint that there was another being in the vicinity. Boromir had no idea how Legolas had achieved it, but he had successfully disappeared like smoke in the wind.

The desperation for absolution quickly bent to the burning anger of rejection. "Damn you!" he shouted, hurt and offended that he had not been received as he expected. "Damn you and all your kind!" Still, the night offered no welcome. Boromir turned back for camp, his quest for forgiveness failed.

He did not know that he had looked right at Legolas. The elf watched the warrior's retreating back from his tree, motionless and tense. There were no words the man could possibly say to redeem himself in Legolas' mind: the damage was irrevocable ... he had seen those green eyes become black with murder, and whether it was the warrior's fault or no, the Legolas saw the poison that festered there. Legolas knew the enemy had clawed his way into the heart of a good soul, and he could not shake the deep sense of fear that settled so mercilessly in his chest.


	4. Chapter Four: Black and Gold

Chapter Four: Black and Gold

Aragorn was true to his word, rousing the Fellowship as soon as dawn began to pale the eastern sky through the weighty cloud. As Aragorn had suspected it would, the heavens had emptied onto them, making their bed of stone an even more uncomfortable way to spend a night. The downpour had come in fits and bursts, teasing them by easing off only to drench them further. It drizzled now, a miserable wet that peppered everything in tiny beads of moisture ... though it did entertain him that it made Gimli's already frizzled mop all the more alive, a fact that clearly irritated the dwarf by his expression as he warred to control it. Aragorn could not quite bite back the amused snort enticed by Boromir's observation of his not being aware of dwarves being a prissy folk.

"I am a dwarf of warrior standing, not some elvish princeling!" Gimli all but snarled, his deep baritone containing about as much good humour as a troll being poked in the eye with a large stick.

"No indeed," Aragorn returned before he could stop himself, by no means fazed by Gimli's foul mood. "Elvish princelings are born comely. Don't feel so pressured to compete with them in something you cannot win, my friend!"

Gimli cursed the two men's laughter rather avidly in his own tongue. The individual meanings were not lost on either of them, both whom had seen fit as children to deviate from the chosen path of their studies to do some extracurricular learning of other languages.

The grey light was uninspiring to the hobbits, whose idea of waking in the morning always involved rising when they were good and ready, swiftly followed by a hearty breakfast. It inevitably also involved a comfortable bed and being completely dry and warm, mind. Even after all the months they had spent away from the Shire, they still found adjusting to this lifestyle difficult. Pippin managed to somehow heave a world-weary sigh crossed with a yawn. "I think I've only been asleep ten minutes."

"Trust me," Merry rejoined groggily, rubbing his hair vigorously to shake some of the water from it, "from the snoring you did last night, you were asleep longer than ten minutes."

Pippin looked a little affronted at the accusation, and tried to defend himself with: "But I don't snore!"

A chorus of voices came back to him with a: "Yes, you do," much to the hobbit's perplexity.

"Very loudly," Aragorn added as he poked at the feeble fire he tried to set going.

"Louder than Gimli," Boromir jibbed, to which the dwarf gave a bad tempered huff, extracting his pipe and stuffing it mercilessly with weed. Gimli was always in a less than favourable mood early in the mornings, being possibly even less fond of them than the hobbits were, and his ill temper was particularly riled today following Aragorn and Boromir's teasing. "Well I'm sorry," he all but growled, "but I'll have you know that I suffer from a condition."

"Oh, come now, Gimli: you should stop calling your being a dwarf a condition. We understand perfectly well it is not something you can help. There's no need to apologise."

Legolas was back. Having been on watch duty for the entire night after electing to not wake Gimli to replace him, he was considerably wetter than the others. Unlike everyone else, he didn't seem to care, removing his quiver to shed the waterlogged cloak of his kin and toss it into his and Gimli's boat, not at all bothered by the cold wind like the mortals surrounding him were – which annoyed Gimli all the further.

Legolas was quite unaware that even in his absence he had contributed quite largely to Gimli's foul mood ... had he known, his sense of smug satisfaction would have angered the dwarf even further. As it was, he was a little surprised when Gimli shot the returned elf what he deemed rather a dark glare at his quip. "Oh yes? And where have you been exactly, O Mighty Prince of Mirkwood?"

The elf cocked his head at the petulance in the dwarf's voice as he used his title in evident irritation, not entirely sure that what he had said had been that bad. He elected to dismiss it as a quirk of dwarvish nature. "Gathering breakfast." Legolas placed Sam's tin beside the struggling fire, the contents gleaming deep amber in the strengthening light.

"There's honey! Look!" Pippin's gleeful shout roused his companions somewhat, their interest peaking at the possibility of something far tastier and more interesting than _lembas_. Even Frodo, whose demeanour had become progressively more subdued and troubled, allowed a grin to his face, the weight in his eyes lifting a little.

Aragorn, for his part, stared in disbelief at the honeycombs dripping liquid gold. There was easily enough there for an ample share each, and he could not help the grin that spread across his own features. He felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards Legolas just then for what he had done for the Fellowship. He knew the severity of the plunge in morale from losing the hare the night before, and this unexpected gift of honey had worked wonders already to elevate depleted spirits, his own included.

"This'll make the _lembas _more interesting, and no mistake," Sam enthused as he divided the honey into equal portions, positively glowing with pleasure at the sweet scent assailing his nostrils.

Legolas sensed an opportunity for fun and arched a brow at his comment, the unmistakable brightness of mischief in his eyes. "Are you trying to say you find elvish waybread boring, Samwise?"

Sam instantly coloured about the ears, missing the fun in the elf's words and hearing only the level and serious tone with which he chose to deliver the question. His mouth gaped slightly, clear panic that he had offended one of the elves he so revered widening his eyes. "What? Oh, no! No, Legolas, no! It's a very fine food, sir, and I'm grateful for every crumb of it. I was just meaning that _lembas _is a bit ... well..." the poor hobbit floundered, practically drowning in his ever deepening embarrassment. "Y'know ... it's-"

"The best thing you've ever eaten?" Legolas said, a crooked smile gracing his lips.

Sam's disagreement could not have been plainer on his face if it were written in ink. It was evident that he warred with himself for a deferential way to put across his own view. "Well, _no_..."

Aragorn chose to come to the hobbit's rescue, pausing in his efforts to strengthen his small fire. "Sam, he's jesting with you."

"Oh. Really?"

The relief in the poor hobbit's face was so strong Legolas felt a pang of guilt for his teasing. "Yes, really," he assured him. "I honestly hate _lembas._" He offered a warm smile to his naive companion.

Aragorn set a little water beside the fire to heat and resumed his seat on the water-smoothed log. "The Mirkwood elves possess something of a love of mischief, Sam," the ranger informed patiently. "Legolas forgets that his humour is sometimes a little too dry for the company he keeps ... or at least too dry for this early in the morning."

Legolas acknowledged the soft rebuke in his friend's words, and offered Sam a respectful bow. "Aragorn is quite right, Sam: I forget myself sometimes, and I apologise. I only tease through fondness, please understand."

Sam flushed at the ears again, but this time more out of pleasure at Legolas' open affection than embarrassment. Pippin sniggered beside him, a response that elicited a sharp jab in the ribs from his gardener friend.

For a time, none in the company spoke, all too intent on eating their _lembas_ smothered in honey. It really did make all the difference to the dry and unappetising elven travelling bread, and Aragorn allowed for a little more to be rationed out than was normal for them to eat with their treat.

There was only one who did not eat his share of honey: Legolas had far less than the others, offering his own tin to the hobbits to finish between them, choosing instead to pour some hot water into a separate container with honey, dried ginger and what looked like tree bark of some kind from a small pouch at his hip, with a handful of wild mint he had found. The hobbits regarded what he did with intrigue, attracted by their very natures to something new and potentially edible. Only when the liquid was brewed to an unappealing green did Legolas settle down to drink, sitting on the stony ground and leaning his back against the log upon which Aragorn and the hobbits perched.

Aragorn felt his heart pinch with concern when he realised exactly what it was the elf had brewed, but before he could quietly confer with Legolas over it, an entirely different question from another source stopped him in his tracks:

"What is that?" Merry queried, his curiosity finally winning over. "Some kind of elf drink?"

"If only one elf drinking it counts, then yes, it's an elf drink," Aragorn said before Legolas could answer. He grinned as he caught the burning look his friend shot him.

"I will have you know that Lord Glorfindel has something of an appreciation for it," Legolas retaliated, an edge of haughtiness to his tone.

"Indeed he does," Aragorn conceded. "But Lord Glorfindel also enjoys writing volumes concerning rock formations-" the dwarf amongst them gave an approving grunt at this "-and favours riding with bells on every inch of his tack. If I were you, I'd reconsider his merit as a suitable example."

"I shall tell him you said that next time I see him."

"It wouldn't make a difference to him: I believe Glorfindel takes particular pleasure in his reputation of eccentricity."

"Yes, but what's it _like_?" Pippin pressed, growing bored of this conversation concerning an elf he had vaguely heard of but never before encountered, and far more interested in his borderline discovery of a new beverage. Aragorn's indication of other elves not enjoying it as much as Legolas didn't deter the hobbit in the slightest; Pippin did, after all, liked raspberries with his fried mushrooms.

Half amused by the enthusiasm of the hobbit, and half annoyed that he could not continue with his drink in peace, Legolas finally relented and proffered his tin to Pippin, whose hands cupped about it like they held something truly precious. All eyes were on him as he sniffed at it expertly in an action akin to a wine merchant assessing the quality of a new cask, checking the hue, the scent and the consistency. Sam was becoming quite annoyed with him by the time he finally raised it to his lips.

Pippin sipped carefully.

The Fellowship watched.

All thought he actually _liked_ it for a brief moment. Aragorn was even preparing himself for an apology to his elven friend - until Pippin's face suddenly contorted in a spasm of intense dislike. His body lurched violently forward and his hand made to fling the tin away from him, as though it were filled with something vile and diseased, and it was only through lunging to the rescue of his beverage that Legolas was able to stop the tin flying for the river. Pippin leaped up, dashing to the waters' edge to wash his mouth out, exclaiming and spluttering at the sheer intensity of the bitter taste of the bark assailing his tongue.

The rest of the Fellowship erupted into laughter, the dwarf apparently finding it so hilarious he couldn't breathe properly, tears streaming from his eyes into his already soaked beard. It took them a little time to sober, as it was the single most entertaining thing they had witnessed in a long time.

Aragorn surreptitiously eyed Legolas as the elf cradled his insulted drink. He became suddenly distant. There was no mirth colouring his face now, his eyes staring beyond the camp and his companions, beyond even the quest and the day. Contrary to his outwardly chipper demeanour, a black and troubled mood revealed itself behind the shield of his tin. Despite the vileness of the tea to everyone else's senses, to Legolas, it was a comfort for him when he was deeply uneasy, and Aragorn's stomach knotted with concern that he should feel the need to make it out here in the Wilds. They were all under strain, and had been for so very long. Legolas had never once wavered in his strength, nor his step beside Aragorn faltered, and the ranger dreaded what could have happened in the watches of the night to invoke such a change in Legolas' bearing.

The tea was bad enough, but the distance in Legolas' eyes was more than enough to set a heavy note of trepidation in Aragorn's heart. Unable to restrain his wont of an answer to his own disquiet, he chose to stage his question softly in the elf's ear: "Man prestale?"

Legolas merely gave a barely detectable shake of the head at Aragorn's query, not a request that the ranger let the matter be, but more out of confusion. He blinked, and the dark blue eyes came back to the camp and the present. They turned to Aragorn, and it disturbed him to see the depth of anguish in them. The sharp gaze betrayed Legolas' fear openly to his friend, the only one he could trust with the display of such a dangerous emotion.

"Nin hûn helegnin," Legolas admitted quietly, the words laced with the very ice that clenched his soul.

Aragorn felt the words of his friend raise the hairs at the nape of his neck again. So little riled Legolas into such a sense of fear. If something was coming their way, they had to move, and quickly. He issued such instruction to the camp at large, informing them that they were to move off within the next couple of minutes. His tone did not broach any hint of his worry, and all were quick to comply. None argued, all surrounding the camp feeling their appetites to be suitably sated and their moods restored to a much happier place than the night before. Fingers traced the lining of the tins one last time to ensure that every drop was not wasted. It had been a treat the like of which all present appreciated they were unlikely to have again on their journey as winter deepened, and it fortified them.

There was nothing in the morning air to tell them that an evil was coming for them, nothing to indicate that this would be the last time they ever shared laughter together, or even something so simple as a meal. The wind maintained its biting strength, but the breakfast of honey and _lembas_ set their hearts and their spirits high, and they felt a little more optimistic as they piled into the elven boats, knowing nothing of the oncoming threat, or the deepening fear of their elven companion and the unsettled worry of his ranger friend.

Translation: "Man prestale?"

"What troubles you?"

"Nin hûn helegnin."

"My heart freezes."


	5. Chapter Five: The Oncoming Storm

**Author's Note:**

Just a quick thanks to all of you kind enough to review so far. This is proving to be far more popular than I thought it was going to be, and all I can say is I'm glad you're all enjoying it! Any thoughts and criticisms I would dearly love to hear!

This chapter is much longer than all the previous ones, but it's also the one where everything really starts to kick off, so it's pretty damn important. Anyway, enough of the A.N., and on with the story!

-(())-

Chapter Five: The Oncoming Storm

"... So, only when you have a true appreciation of the majesty of rock formation can you really understand the architecture of what can be carven through it. Each cave has its own hidden personality, Master Elf. Only dwarves have the skill to delve into their hearts and bring out their characters."

"Mm."

Gimli's enthusiasm was not curbed by the lack of vigour in his audience's response. "It is only a dwarf that can find the lines in the rock that define it," he added, injecting a little defensiveness into his tone for the sake of drama. This was a very one-sided conversation, and Gimli felt the need to entertain himself through imaging the elf giving him more animated responses than 'Mm'. "The choosing of each tool is imperative to revealing the nature of the rock: choose something too aggressive, and you risk causing the lady within injury. Go for something too gentle, and you reveal too little and leave her forever trapped." Gimli was rather proud of his analogy, thinking it loftily poetic enough for an elf to appreciate. Still:

"Hmm."

The dwarf scowled, going quiet and crossing his arms in irritation at his companion. He could talk about rocks and caves and digging forever, he really could, but he generally wanted some feedback from those he spoke to, expecting his love of all things stone to rub off on them. Of course, he knew elves were all for trees and green and nature, but there was nature in rock, was there not? Did mountains not rise in majesty from the same soil that trees did?

There were many feet of river between theirs and the other two boats. They were at the tail of the group, and it annoyed Gimli all the more to hear the laughter sail down the wind to them from the other craft. The hobbits were still in high spirits from breakfast, and even Aragorn and Boromir shared their joy in the day from the occasional deep bark of laughter from them. Why did Gimli have to be landed with an introspective partner when everyone else was so content? The elf normally sang as he steered. Naturally, Gimli liked to grumble about it, as was his prerogative as a dwarf ... but he found that without the soft singing the long day in the boat took on a more wearisome edge ... and it annoyed him all the further to think that he, hardened dwarf warrior that he was, _missed_ the singing of an elvish princeling.

"You are more brooding than a chicken with an egg stuck in its arse," Gimli growled, keeping his arms crossed and eyes forward.

"Hmm?"

"_Elf_!"

"What?" The provoked response was a little snappy in its delivery, but Gimli held it as a secret victory: even one word was far preferable to noncommittal sounds.

"If you _hmm _at me one more time, I shall using that new bow of yours for firewood!"

"Try it."

The heavy threat in his voice actually shocked Gimli, and he turned in his seat to cast an incredulous eye over his companion. His jibe had been a good-humoured jest: they exchanged them more frequently than a barkeep took coin for ale. But looking at Legolas now, with the expression on his face hard and the holding of his frame so stiff and unyielding, he was every inch the image of his humourless father Glóin had recounted. Legolas didn't make eye contact with him, his penetrating steel gaze falling instead on the densely treed shores. There was something disturbing about his eyes...

Sensing that he was being scrutinised, Legolas brought his attention to his stocky companion, and he took in the dismay in the dwarf's countenance. The heavy lines etched into the elf's brow softened a little and some of the dark left his eyes. "I'm sorry, Gimli." Legolas sighed, the action forlorn. "I didn't mean that."

"What is the_ matter_ with you?" Gimli demanded, mystified that such an attitude should have befallen the one he was beginning to call friend rather than acquaintance.

Legolas took his eyes back to their surroundings, their deep blue taking on the aggressive keenness of a hawk as they sought to pierce through the dense wood at the waters' edge. The wind toyed with his hair, whipping his face with soft strands turned sharp by its strength. Dark clouds massed on the horizon, shoving their way towards them on the wind. _They heralded more to me than just a storm_. Legolas' focus returned only when the boat gave a spirited buck and he had to check their course to avoid some rougher water in the channel. "Nothing," he eventually replied, remembering Gimli's question and now keeping his attention on the water and doggedly refusing to meet the dwarf's eye. His kept his face carefully guarded, knowing that the dwarf's lack of experience of him would prohibit the gaining of any reading.

However, Gimli had better ideas. He felt that he knew enough of the youthful-looking ancient behind him to have a stab at his troubles, and the dwarf decided to act upon his inkling. "You're fretting about Boromir." When his words met only with silence, he took it to be an affirmation, and privately congratulated himself on his cleverness at revealing the trouble of the enigmatic being. He gyrated back to face the prow before continuing: "Worry not, lad. He'll forgive you."

Legolas did not try to tell the dwarf that, in fact, forgiveness from Boromir was _far _from his thoughts. His difficulties with the Gondorian were little more than a tainting shadow compared to what his mind worried over. But there was no need to tell Gimli that something far more dangerous than the Steward's son troubled him. After all, how could he reveal his fears openly to the dwarf, and then declare that he did not fully understand what it was _exactly_ that put him in such a raw state of mind? Gimli was a creature who only took stock of evidence as solid as the earth under his feet. Feelings of foreboding held no store with him.

"Y'see," Gimli continued, oblivious to Legolas' thoughts, "the problem with you two is you're both stubborn proud fools." Legolas could not restrain the amused smirk from gracing his lips at the sheer bluntness of the statement. "Neither of you can back down from the other without feeling that you'll lose face. But unity is everything on a quest of this nature. Set aside your quarrel."

Gimli's brusque logic displayed his ignorance of the situation, but Legolas appreciated his naive efforts to bring peace to his and Boromir's shattered relationship. Legolas shook his head to himself, a sad smile gracing his lips. "Oh Gimli, would that it were that simple."

"Why can't it be?"

"How can it be?" Legolas returned wryly.

Gimli huffed at the response. "Why do you elves always have to dance with words?" Legolas chuckled at that, and the short lapse of his dour mood sent its warmth through the dwarf and lightened the day for him, just a little.

Silence fell between them, its quality more companionable for Gimli than it had previously been. The chortling of a starling flock wheeling overhead served to punctuate the gentle murmur of the river as the boat slipped along, graceful and smooth as newly spun silk through long fingers. Though the chill of season's end was upon them, the pleasantness of the day did not escape Gimli's sense of natural appreciation. A weak sunlight glinted pale yellow gently on the water through a temporary lapse in the cloud's jealous embrace. The unique green of the river complemented the jutting fists of grey stone touched with yellow lichen that lined the banks and occasionally blocked the Anduin's path. The forest angling sharply skyward like an endless crowd of raised green shields was not foreboding to him in its darkness, but more a completing feature to the aesthetic grandeur of the Anduin.

For Legolas, however, the peace merely served to amplify the disturbed hum of the earth, a clamouring cacophony of tense warnings assailing his senses. The sensation of cold dread washed through him again, the feathery touch of a hand soaked in death lighting upon his back. For a Wood-elf, forests were places of safety and happiness, a natural and embracing environment that should bear no uncertainty... But the edge of forest that surrounded them, broken only by the uncompromising might of the river, repelled at his nature with a feeling so strong it burned his spirit to feel it. An icy shudder echoed through his body before he was able to suppress it, his grip on the paddle becoming steel without his realising. Daylight lapsed into an impenetrable pitch to his senses, the birds and river muting their song to him. He felt choked. His face was entirely bereft of the pale blush of the waning sun, and the wind was abrasive when it rushed his exposed skin in violent bursts of mocking laughter. _I know what comes_, it breathed, _and you will fall._

_You will all fall._

The sky flooded to their left with screeching crows, the mass of their pitch-black bodies rising from their roost trees and shrouding the daylight across the river bank. Legolas started so violently he threw the boat into the more turbulent waters when his wrists jarred against the current. Gimli shouted as the boat violently listed and plunged, his hands shooting out to grasp the sides in terror of tipping. "_Drat and curse you, Elf_!" he bellowed.

But he knew now, he_ knew_.

Legolas did not care for Gimli's grievance, and he paid no heed to the more colourful curses the dwarf emitted into the chill air as he regained control of the craft, deliberately steering their vessel into the more aggressive waters. The current whipped the boat along without the gentle care the river's surrounding flow had previously afforded them. Gimli's cursing became full-blown swearing as the turbulence threw his weight and unashamedly bashed him about the boat, but Legolas ignored it still, riding out the rough with all the grace and mastery of balance gifted to his race. Using the paddle with fierce strength, he swiftly closed what had been a lengthy gap between the boats. The shocked expressions of Boromir, Merry and Pippin slipped by as little more than a fleeting memory as Legolas aimed for his true target.

"Estel! Daro!"

Aragorn's head whipped round at the unexpected hail, his open mouth betraying his alarm. The ranger slowed his vessel to as near a halt as the river would grant, and Legolas, knowing he had arrested their leader's attention, thrust his paddle deep into the water, expertly throwing the prow back into the calmer stream and drawing level with the other boat.

Aragorn finally recovered the use of his tongue, more than a little unnerved by the uncharacteristic behaviour. "What in the name of the One is the matter with you?"

"He's about the die, that's what's the matter with him!" Gimli thundered, flinging a burning glare at the elf so full of rage it could have cowed a balrog. But Legolas, being no balrog, failed to so much as flinch at the promised threat, blocking Gimli's ire from his immediate concerns.

"Estel, _Ulaer_ come," he breathed.

Aragorn paled, his heart skitting to the side at those words, words he would have paid dearly to never have to hear. A desperate plea rattled through his mind before he could hold it. _Ai, Eru, let him be wrong. Please, Legolas, for once in your life be wrong. _"You are certain?"

Legolas gave a solemn nod. "There is no doubt in my mind." Urgency peppered Legolas' next words, his distress that his warning was being questioned evident in his tone. "Aragorn, dusk is coming, and they are many."

Aragorn nodded distractedly, trying to determine the best course of action. Sickeningly, he knew there was no error on Legolas' part, the conviction in his eyes was simply too strong. Through their long years as friends, this 'sense' the elf possessed had proven invaluable, if a little unnerving. Before he learned to trust the elf when he was not long a man grown, Aragorn had not regarded Legolas' ability with any real respect. It had proven a hard lesson that to dismiss Legolas' precognitive skills was foolish at best, deadly at worst. He dared not ignore it again.

Sam, Frodo and Gimli could only look on in bewilderment, neither understanding the word itself or why it held such threat that it could turn the hardened ranger's face as ashen as it had. "Damn you, Elf," Gimli cussed, the panic of the past few minutes and lack of understanding surging his heart into becoming truly angry with his companion, "will you speak with words we all comprehend!"

"What goes on here?"

The other boat finally drew up to Aragorn's port side, the confusion of its occupants directed through voice by Boromir, the warrior's green eyes hard with the need for a satisfying answer.

"Some Ulireare coming," Sam ventured haltingly, falling over the pronunciation of the foreign word.

"What?" Boromir frowned heavily at the hobbit with his lack of understanding, the intensity of his glare making Sam blush about his ears again.

"Ulaer," Aragorn corrected. "The Sindarin for Nazgûl."

Understanding blossomed over the faces of the rest of the Fellowship. That understanding quickly gave way to fear for the hobbits. This was a terror they knew too well, the memory of their ineffectiveness against such mighty foes still keen. But it was the suffering dealt to their kinsman that truly troubled them, an image scorched to their minds to haunt them to the end of their days.

"We make for shore," Aragorn informed them decisively. Knowing his friend to be his surest source of information, he turned his authority to him in their need. "East or west, mellon nin?"

Legolas hesitated, casting his eyes between both banks. He felt so unsure, and now that he had the attention of the entire Fellowship he didn't know in which direction the safest path lay. So many years in the shadow of Dol Guldor had taught his senses more of the Ulaer than he ever wished to know. The elves of Mirkwood had long ago learned how the unique black taint of the Ulaer marred their perception of the earth. It was a sense so well honed in those that battled the most against the spreading stain of Dol Guldor that they could pinpoint the location of the vile beings. But the direction of their threat was somehow blurred to him as though they were _everywhere_, like a drop of blood dissipated in a glass of water.

"Neither," he finally said unhappily. "The forest will not receive us well, but we cannot tarry any longer on the river. Land and water do not hinder them."

"What's that supposed to mean, _land and water do not hinder them_?" Boromir hissed, frustrated at the vagueness of the responses he was receiving.

"It means I don't know!" Legolas snapped back, his thin patience lost to him. "I know they come, and that's all I have to offer you. Believe me, don't believe me, that's your choice."

Boromir ran his hand through his thick earthen hair, the action expressing his discontent with the situation almost as clearly as the sneer twisting his lips. Seeming to remember himself, he lowered his hand back to the paddle and regained mastery of his face. Forced patience bent his anger down and clipped his tone when he directed his next words to their leader. "Surely, Aragorn, you cannot be considering taking us off course because of the vague forebodings of the elf?"

"I trust him, and I trust what he says," Aragorn stated forcefully, his liquid grey eyes dangerous in the waning sunlight. He would not have his authority questioned, not out here, not now. "There is no debate here: I issued an order, not a request." To illustrate his conviction in his own words, Aragorn struck out for the eastern shore in expectation of the others to follow.

Boromir shook his head to himself. Many years as a disciplined soldier in an unending time of war had taught him deference to superior officers. But for more years than he dared count, Boromir _himself_ had been the superior officer, and both his pride and spirit as a leader of men made him more than willing to question the acumen of those around him. Any information received had to be of the most solid foundations before he would even consider action; the lives of his men were too precious to him to entertain acting on anything less. Preternatural senses, elven or otherwise, were not strong enough foundations for drastic action. Equally, if he detected poor judgement amongst his lieutenants, he would speak out and expect to be heard. And right then, he saw a combination of these potentially dangerous elements unfolding before his eyes, and he was damned if he wouldn't make his protest known.

"We should stay our c-"

An earth-rending shriek shattered the rest of his sentence in the confines of his throat. The hobbits cried out in terror, their hands clamped to the sides of their heads in an effort to stop the noise breaking their souls to shards. Even for Boromir, hardened as he had been to the presence of the Nine through his life, could not withstand the brace of fear that snared him and turned the air he breathed to ash as his eyes drew themselves skywards...

The monstrous beast the Nazgûl rode as a stead was immense. It grew from being little more than a sparrow to the eye to near the size of one of the great eagles of the Misty Mountains with terrifying speed. Massive leathery wings supported a gigantic, sharply angled body through flight, the slate-grey scales absorbing light and returning nothing. The great fanged maw stretched wide in a promise of death, vast enough to engulf a horse. The abomination's claws spread wide as it aligned its angle of descent straight for the fear-frozen figures of one man and two hobbits, helpless as three snared rabbits.

In the boat closest to them, Gimli, as stone-dead terrified as those in the stricken vessel, did not fully understand what was happening when a pair of strong hands prised his own open and firmly thrust the paddle into them. But again, Legolas found himself not caring for the dwarf's incomprehension as he stood in the boat, angling his body to give him better sight of the oncoming threat. His long fingers moulded around the bow of the Galadhrim and adjusted to the unfamiliarity of the girth. For a fleeting instant, he missed the familiar weight of the one gifted to him by his father many years gone. But this new bow was a more powerful weapon, designed for use in war rather than woodland, and his honed talent accepted it openly. This was where his power lay, this was his strength, and that knowledge gave every tendon a keener edge as his right arm drew the elf-hair string taut, his sharp eyes advising his skilled aim...

Death was so close to them now that Boromir could see every mottled mark about the monstrosity's snout where the colouring changed. With every beat of its wings, a reptilian stink so strong it turned the air near caustic flooded his mouth and nose. He could see every gouge in the jagged claws, every chainmail scale laid so perfectly that it belied the abomination it covered as something close to beautiful. _So this is what Death looks like_. All he could do was take a deep, bracing breath, having nothing left for the two hobbits sharing his fall from life.

He did not see the loan figure framed against the failing light, tall and strong and armed with deadly grace.

He did not witness Legolas deal his hand.

The song of the two arrows was shrill and short before they pierced deep into the throat of the swooping creature. It gave an agonised scream at their strike, the projectiles throwing its course more like butterfly hit with a shield than a fell beast of Mordor. It gave a great wheezing squeal, its desperation for breath detracting its efforts from flight, the wings clumsy in their efforts to remain airborne and propelling it up and sideways over the far bank.

Legolas nocked two further shafts and tracked its flawed passage across the water, waiting for that perfect shot.

Waiting... Waiting...

The beast twisted in the air over the forest, flashing its softer belly to him, and he finally took his chance. The strike of the twin arrows was perfect despite the pitching of the boat, to the relieved cheers of the hobbits. The Wraith screamed again, pure fury ripping the air enough to even quell the most stalwart hearts of the Fellowship ... but the flying beast itself made no sound, pathetically arching its neck with its great maw gaping before plummeting lifelessly into the trees below.

Boromir breathed again, individual gasps he could not believe he was taking in. He found himself savouring every one as though they were made of purest gold, not fully understanding how it was he was still alive to perform such a basic action. Without thinking, his eyes crossed the water to the closest boat and lighted upon their saviour. Legolas still stood, his face impassive as he replaced his bow at his back and staring at the point where the Nazgûl and his mount had crashed. His eyes were unreadable when they briefly flitted to Boromir's. Before the Gondorian could begin to form words, further screeches tore through the darkening air. Legolas' head snapped to the north momentarily before he all but threw himself back to his seat and snatched the paddle from Gimli - who stared at the elf as though he had sprouted an extra head - and immediately set to propelling their vessel with renewed desperation for the western shore. The action slapped Boromir back to his senses. He recovered the use of his muscles from his frozen state of terror and thrust the paddle deep into the river, the excited hunting cries of the remaining Nazgûl harrying them across the water like a pack of baying hounds.


	6. Chapter Six: The Storm Breaks

Vanimalion will tell you how much I loath author's notes, but I'm making a quick exception here: I'm sorry this is so late in coming, but I've been battling with this to get the right tone, and it ended up being far longer than intended. It was actually going to be a mega-chapter, but the size of it (over 7,000 words) would have been far too much for one chapter, seeing as it isn't finished yet! Plus, I've kept you all waiting far too long as it is.

Anyway, enjoy! The seventh chapter will be along very soon, I promise!

* * *

><p>Chapter Six: The Storm Breaks<p>

Frodo and Sam had barely registered the scrape of the boat's hull on the shallows before Aragorn's boots plunged into the water. The ranger waded to the vessel's prow and proceeded to drag it. "Sam – Frodo – get under the trees! Quickly!"

Not daring to disobey knowing the immediate peril they were in, the two hobbits complied, jumping into the water and dashing for the trees even as Aragorn hauled their boat up the steep stony incline, making for the relative cover of the encroaching forest. Even when he had managed to manoeuvre the boat's bulk behind a rocky outcrop and obstructed it from view from the water, he set about disguising it with clumps of dead flotsam. Legolas' action may have been essential for the survival of their companions, but their position had been forfeited because of it. With their quarry so close, Aragorn knew the others would harbour no fear of an archer. But, so far as he was aware, they had not actually _seen_ them on the water: it was imperative that they hide as completely and quickly as possible.

He could only pray that the ploy would at least buy them some time...

Aragorn gained a shallow sense of relief when he heard the splashes of feet and the scraping of silver hulls as the other two boats made berth. Merry and Pippin hastened to join their kin waiting under the boughs with no instruction, leaving the larger folk to tend the boats. Legolas and Boromir likewise drew theirs into position beside Aragorn's, joining him in his efforts without prompting.

"Did you see them?" Aragorn shot the question at the elf as they both stooped for a mass of collected branches, grasses and reeds ensnared by the brittle twigs like the matted mane of something long since dead.

"I saw two in the far distance to the north, and a further three coming in from the west," Legolas replied heavily, tossing a large branch over a lovingly crafted yet betraying prow. "I couldn't say if they sighted us or no, but they almost certainly witnessed their companion fall. I know they can communicate without speech, but they would have to discuss little to guess that arrows took down the wings of their cohort." He gave a sudden bitter laugh. "I'd say light a beacon, Aragorn, but I think it would be a waste of wood."

"Worry not of that," Aragorn replied dismissively, casting a hasty eye over their work and deeming it good enough. The ranger turned on his own heel and ran up the pebble-strewn incline, he and Boromir ushering the hobbits into a run for the deeper shelter of the forest. He did not see Legolas hesitate behind the rest of the company, holding back from the woods with apprehension in his clear eyes. But, for Legolas, wherever Aragorn chose to tread was the path, and he consciously set aside his unease, following his friends into the mass of beech.

It was more spacious than the forest the Mirkwood elves called home; the air was wholesome in here, sweet with the slow decay of leaf litter and earth, the damp drowsiness of a forest coming to winter veiling the trees. The dense canopy of turning leaves was not so thick that it obstructed the sky, so that during the day light could penetrate through in thin shafts. But Aragorn's need for cover from their pursuers was too dire for him to consider the forest itself: he pushed the hobbits as hard as he dared in the failing light, taking only minimal care for obstacles in favour of speed. But as the brighter river boundary disappeared behind them, the oncoming twilight of the outside world cast shadows too deep to run through. Aragorn was forced to bring them to a halt.

The steady quiet of the still air was marred by the heavy panting of an exhausted company, the less sturdy of whom plonked themselves unceremoniously onto the forest floor and leaned their backs against the solid trunks in an effort to find some relief for their aching bodies. Being tightly confined in the restrictive boats and then forced to sprint did not sit well with unused muscles. The hobbits attempted to massage the cramp from their own limbs as they huddled around a particularly wide-girthed beech, constantly reminding their ankles that they were designed to bend by flexing them as they sat. The taller members of the group chose to attempt to walk off their cramp, a grimace set on each face as they paced.

It took the elf in their midst much less time to recover. He passed between the silver trunks within the vicinity of the company until he seemed to find one to his liking, analysing it only momentarily before leaping for the lowest branch little more than six feet above his head, successfully catching it and hauling himself into its hard embrace. In a series of fluid movements he was gone. Gimli watched his passage from the boulder he had chosen as a seat, shaking his head at his companion's dexterity. "Damned squirrel more than elf."

Aragorn did not hold an interest in what Legolas was doing, however. Boromir had taken a watch position a small distance from the others, staring intently into the darkness from whence they came. The ranger's feet took him to the Gondorian's side, and they shared the watch for a time, each keeping a wary eye for the danger that pursued them. Lightening tore their sheltered darkness into shreds of stark white and pitch black, layering immense shadows over the tree trunks to make it seem that scores of Nazgûl were upon them already. By its sheer nature, the flash left them all in a deeper darkness than before, their vision in the dim light sundered by its brilliance. A thousand discordant drummers could not have made more noise than the heavy rain as it began its assault on the canopy above, great streams of water penetrating through the green barrier like an invading army through weak defences.

The wind slapped their wet hair into their faces with the impudent attitude of a spurned brat. Its battle with the obstructing trunks seemed to further irritate it as the intermittent gusts wailed around the uncaring living towers, whipping sodden clods of detritus and flinging it at them. Teasing ice fingers tugged at their tightly wrapped cloaks with callous abandon, taking evident glee in their obvious discomfort.

Boromir and Aragorn both shuddered. A deep unease settled in them ... whether it was the tension of their situation, or something else at work, neither could say. The trees that had felt like such reliable guardians less than twenty minutes ago now seemed to conspire against them. For the first time since entering them, Aragorn felt a sharp pang of whatever it was that the elf's keener senses detected: to him, now, the trees could conceal an entire host from their view, and they would know nothing of it until it was far too late. _The forest will not receive us..._

Boromir sighed heavily through his nose. "We search for shadows hidden by shadows." He voiced his discontent quietly, keeping his tone low enough for Aragorn only. "I do not know about you, Aragorn, but I do not possess sight skilled enough to make such a distinction."

Aragorn offered his companion a tight smile, giving his head a quick shake to rid his eyes of waterlogged hair. "Fortunately for us mere Men, we travel with others better suited to such tasks."

Boromir gave a derisive snort. "By which, you naturally mean Legolas."

Aragorn frowned to himself at the bitterness of the comment. "Not just Legolas, no: the hobbits have sharp eyes, and Gimli's sight is keen enough at penetrating through darkness..." His sentence faded to nothing and he allowed the silence to stretch from him, only the sounds of nocturnal creatures stirring to activity breaking the quiet. But the silence was fast becoming a gulf between them as Boromir's words stuck in Aragorn's heart like burrs in a dog's coat. He found himself incapable of holding back any longer. "What has he done, Boromir? From whence does this resentment come?"

Boromir did not offer an immediate answer, allowing Aragorn to truly taste what it was to be kept in the dark when all you wished for was a straight answer. When he did give Aragorn his reply, his voice was checked. "There are eight of us here, yet it is between two that decisions are made."

_That is what this is about? Jealousy?_ He was about to say as much when Boromir continued: "You lay far too much faith in what Legolas says. So far on this journey, we have packed up camp and fled on nothing more than a word from him in your ear no less than five times." There was no concealment of the irritation this caused in his tone. "Neither evidence of need to break camp was shown, nor explanation offered, and only once have I seen reason behind such actions." He paused, clearly weighing his next words. "You are a competent leader, Aragorn, but if you focus the safety of the Fellowship on the ... _unnatural_ ... perceptions of an elf, I have no doubt you will run us into our deaths."

Aragorn was stunned numb to the world. He had no idea Boromir harboured such thoughts. But did they stop with Boromir, or did they reverberate with the rest of the Fellowship? The hobbits never questioned his decisions, and their respect for Legolas as the eyes and ears of the Fellowship and Aragorn's close friend never seemed to waver. Gimli was a little different: if he had misgivings, he would voice them, and he partook in verbal sparring with Legolas with relish. But if the feelings Boromir spoke of truly were in the thoughts of the others, then Aragorn was not the leader he thought he was ... what leader could be so blind to such sentiments?

But he had something he needed from the son of Denethor, and he made sure his beaten confidence did not reverberate in his voice when he asked it: "Is it because Legolas is an elf that you do not trust him?" Keep the question straight, get a straight answer. Right now, that was what he needed.

Boromir considered the question for a time. However loath he was to expose his feelings to the world, he was an honest man, and he would not bandy his words. "Rivendell was my first experience of elves, and I confess that I was in awe of them. There is a place of elegance and craft the like of which I had never seen, and I couldn't help marvelling at the sheer beauty of its creation. It touched me.

"But of the elves themselves ... Gondor has no dealings with them, and there are stories of their magic and mysterious ways. Children's tales, mainly; but there are warnings there for the adults, and it is unwise to ignore all that is spoken of in legend.

"Legolas has shown me over time that some of those stories are untrue, but certainly not all. And _she_ made me realise that their powers are far more dangerous than I ever imagined."

_Oh, of course_. Aragorn knew to whom he referred and his mouth set in a grim line. When they had spoken at length in Lothlórien about the Lady, he had sensed the younger man's discomfort, but his respect for Boromir's pride provoked him not to pry. There were few elves left in Arda who possessed such natural gifts, Elrond and Galadriel being amongst the very most powerful. Awe-inspiring to those who held even the vaguest understanding of what they did, deeply unsettling for those who didn't. Boromir belonged to the latter category. On the whole, the majority of elves were actually like Lindir of Imladris: gifted with the grace of their people, physically stronger and with keener senses than men, but more concerned with finding ways to encapsulate their love of the earth and stars in craft and song. They did not trouble themselves with learning such mighty talents as Boromir assumed.

Legolas was, however, a _little_ different. Aragorn knew there was debate as to whether Legolas possessed the gift of foresight or no. Yes, he certainly had some kind of talent when it came to knowing the presence of danger before it made itself properly known, but aside from that, Aragorn had never witnessed anything to suggest otherwise. He most certainly did not have the power Galadriel held.

"Legolas does not possess that kind of ability."

Boromir snorted again. "Does he not? I am forced to wonder, when you leap at his every word."

Aragorn bristled, but kept his temper. Choosing a different tact, he ventured forth from a new angle: "Forget Legolas is of whom we speak – forget it is even of elves: if you had a source giving you vital information but with no evidence of its origin, and this source had _never_ been wrong, as a leader of men, would you not entrust your faith to them?"

"With all my heart, no."

"_No_? But-"

The ranger's return was cut short by the agonised squeal of ripping wood and a yelp of surprise from the heights of a tree behind them. The shout of fright flung aside their differences and they spun round together, swords ready through sheer reflex and attention pinned on the treetop -

The sharpest eyes were hard-pressed to discern whether he ran or fell. His feet barely came into contact with the branches as he came down and his line of descent completely missed the bottommost limb. Legolas' feet hit the ground hard and his body folded into a crumpled heap, his usual careful grace completely lost in a shower of leaves and snapped twigs.

Sam and Merry were on their feet immediately, calling out with concern to the fallen elf and starting towards him...

Birds took wing, shrieking in panic as something heavy pounded through their roosting spots, shearing foliage in its crashing descent –

With horror, Boromir recognised the sound for what it was, for the danger the hobbits ran into and the elf lay beneath - "GET _BACK_!"

The hobbits startled to a halt at his holler. Legolas threw his arms over his head and rolled out of the way just in time as the immense branch thwacked into the ground exactly where he had lain, a shower of smaller limbs and fresh leaves raining down on his back and shoulders.

No-one moved. The forest stilled again, an unnerving peace settling on them like a stifling blanket. Aragorn himself started forward, panicked by what had occurred and frightened for his friend. But before he could reach him, Legolas sat up, his stunned gaze fixed on the arm of wood that had nearly killed him. _Thank the Valar. _"What was that?" the ranger demanded, his voice a little higher than was normal for him. "Are you hurt?"

Legolas flowed to his feet, brushing himself off a little shakily and moving away from the tree. He shook his head absently at Aragorn's concern. "I am unhurt." He looked back to the offending tree, his expression one of stunned disbelief. "The tree betrayed me," he murmured, his tone sounding like a grievous wrong had been committed against him. But sudden alarm passed over his face as though he recalled something more urgent, and he spun round to face his friend. "Aragorn, we -"

"Oh_ yes_," Gimli scoffed openly, missing the elf's urgent tone and interrupting him with his rather derisive mirth. "Because over-grown weeds can be turncoats. _The tree betrayed me_ – bah! You elves make truly absurd statements sometimes! What _really_ happened, Elf, is you fell because you stepped on a rotting branch."

The archer bristled like a cornered wildcat, his father's legendary searing temper threatening to break loose of the normally tight fetters with which Legolas kept it bound. For the briefest of moments, Aragorn actually saw Thranduil standing there instead of his son, his face pinched white and his eyes capable of cutting the thickest of hides to ribbons with their ire. "I am _tired_ of being doubted by children!" he hissed, his voice dripping with vehemence. Although he did not shout, the power of his anger was such that even the storm seemed to cow from it. "Do you imply that I know not of what I speak? I, who have lived and fought amongst the eves of my home for a span of years your people can only relate to in lore? Do not seek to belittle me with your own ignorance, _Dwarf_!" Legolas nudged the heavy branch with his foot. "Does that look like dead wood to you?"

He was right, it wasn't. Even in the almost totally gone light it was clear that the wood was torn and moist, not splintered and dry; it even _smelled_ fresh. Gimli merely shrugged his brows at the elf's angered retort, crossing his arms over his chest with a "Humph". The slight shuffling of his feet betrayed his discomfort under Legolas' penetrating steel glare.

When no further interruption came from the dwarf, Legolas reverted back to what he was originally trying to say, fixing his eyes on Aragorn once more. "They are in the forest. If this tree betrayed my step, then I can guarantee that the others will not harbour us. We must leave, and now."

"So it begins again."

Aragorn did not miss Boromir's resentfully muttered remark. Despite the enormity of the distraction, the conversation the two men had held prior to the event was more than fresh in their minds, and it filled Aragorn's heart with barbs. Right now, his oldest friend needed him. To the others, the elf's normally cool temper had been tested too far by the thoughtless utterances of a dwarf. But Aragorn knew that Gimli had merely been an unfortunate channel for his frustration ... Legolas had promised he would not seek open confrontation with Boromir, and he kept his word. But he was clearly stung by what he had evidently overheard. His eyes exuded a wont for Aragorn's support, and it made the ranger feel a traitor for even considering turning aside from it.

But Boromir... It pained him that the man's tenuous loyalty hung on the weak threads of a conversation staged moments ago and worlds away. If he made the wrong choice now, he was a slip away from losing the fragile links of kinship and trust wrought between them...

_This is it_, he realised. _This is what it is to be a leader of men: deciding who to hurt and who to please. To distance yourself from what your heart bids you do for the sake of allegiance. _The thought left a vile bitterness in his mouth, but he had no option open to him, and all he could hope was that it would not be held against him...

"You have seen them?"

_Seen them? _Legolas was stunned by the question. The one person he thought he could rely upon for his trust openly doubted him. "What, through the trees? My eyes are good, Aragorn, but I confess they are not that good. Can you not _feel _them?"

"_I_ can."

All heads turned at the quiet confession, surprised at the sound of the voice made unfamiliar by a long-kept silence. Frodo was the last one left sitting, leaning heavily against his chosen tree and grasping his shoulder. What was always a dull ache for him had mounted in intensity to nearly the strength of a fresh wound. Never before had he thought that he would share any kind of connection with Legolas, but it was there now, a bizarre link that their aptitude for sensing Nazgûl created between them. "I can feel them."

As though to punctuate his statement, the unnatural shrieks of a thing that should have long been gone from the earth sullied the crisp air. Two others echoed the call in a violent assault on their collective nerve. They were behind them, separated for now, but close and converging on the Fellowship's location.

And that was it: the decision was removed from his hands. Even as the warriors forced the hobbits to abandon their freezing fear and run for their lives, the cries became louder, piercing the gusto of the storm with a thirst for blood and a lust that could not be allayed for the thing they sought. The Fellowship could not afford to watch their path for rocks and roots now, their concerns consumed with dodging the tree trunks that seemed to maliciously bar their escape. It barely registered with Aragorn through the cold fear incited by the presence of the Nine that they were being herded up an increasing gradient, not until the mud began to slow their flight by slipping their feet back from under them ... and he did not realise that the distant roaring in his ears he had thought to be his own blood came from a much more sinister source until he nearly slid into it.

The ravine opened as a great split in the earth, deep and full of raging flood water. It was nowhere near the breadth of the Anduin, but its might was fierce as the water funnelled through the narrow confines of rock far below them. The earth that met with the edge was clearly too soft to support itself against the raging onslaught, the bared roots of trees exposed by landslides glistening in the wet like bony fingers. About twenty feet across the water, a scree slope capped the cliff that disappeared into the rage of the river, ascending some thirty feet to the rest of the forest beyond.

"There's no way out!" Pippin's hands curled into his cousin's cloak, his raw fear shared by his kin as they stared at the white death, clustered together for the only vague comfort they could give themselves. As their terror rendered them defenceless, the rest of the Fellowship searched frantically for a solution to their dire predicament. Through the rain sheeting into his eyes, Aragorn just managed to discern the fallen carcass of what had once been a mighty beech, silvered through age and rot when it had been ripped from its life by the waters in flood but not completely carried away, wedged into a crude and perilous bridge high above the whitewater. It was a little way down from them and along a narrow dirt ledge, but it was accessible.

Seeing his line of sight, the others paled. "You cannot be serious!" Gimli exclaimed in horror. Memories of a very similar situation not so long ago forced their way into every mind amongst them. But Aragorn was serious, very serious. "There's no other path!" he yelled back. "The Wraiths have us trapped!"

An arrow sang from Legolas' bow as he fired into the dark behind them, bringing an angered scream from one of the demons that ventured too close. "We can't fight them here, it's too tight!" the archer shouted over his shoulder, taking aim and loosing another shaft. Aragorn made to join him, intending to employ his own hunting bow in the elf's efforts to keep their flank defended. But what the elf could see clearly, Aragorn's mortal eyes were doomed to be blind to in the impenetrable darkness.

For once, Boromir found himself concurring with the elf. They really couldn't fight here: his and Aragorn's swords were far too long to fight efficiently amongst such tightly growing trees, and that only left Legolas and Gimli as the experienced fighters with weapons that were usable in that kind of space. The hobbits were armed, but their fear would never hold out against the Wraiths.

So when Aragorn barked the order over his shoulder for Boromir to take two hobbits across with him and be followed likewise by Gimli while he and Legolas defended their flank, he complied willingly. Frodo and Sam consented to go with him, seeing as Frodo's need to get away was the greater, and Sam was more than willing to face down his own fears to accompany his master. The terror at what they were about to do was clear on their faces, but where terror threatened to take over, there was also stout resolve. Boromir swallowed his own fear and vertigo and began to edge his way over to the tree, keeping his hands firmly wrapped in Sam and Frodo's hoods to keep their feet steady along the crumbling ledge.

Reaching the tree was fine. It was crossing it that presented the real issue. The wood gleamed at them, its decaying planes slick with wet. There was no doubt in his mind that it would be treacherous underfoot – more so for him in his boots than the large bare feet of the hobbits - but the desperation of their situation forced him onwards. One step was followed gingerly by another. The tree was more like a sponge than solid wood, each step of his compressing the rotted material worryingly. It was weaker than it had looked. To him, his heart thundered louder than the storm as they ventured over the open water. Its beat was so violent Boromir half feared it would shake him off the lethal crossing and throw him to his death ... but he kept going, bending into the jostling wind with the two hobbits likewise shuffling along with him.

He thought they were as good as dead when the tree lurched.


	7. Chapter Seven: I'm Sorry

Chapter Seven: I'm Sorry

Despite the lethalness of the opponent, his sword sang with avarice as he swung into the Nazgûl strike, cutting through the sheeting rain to clash steel to steel, pitching muscle and bloody-minded will against a preternatural power backed by the fires of Mordor itself. Aragorn centred his fear and made it into something stronger, something more pliable, an element of himself that he could use to exacerbate the strength of his fight, the shadow he fought becoming a target for all his hatred and frustration and fear. He refused to be cowed by the awesome power trying to force past his defences, trying to render him and everything he stood for to something less than dust.

They were three, their hunters.

One each.

Gimli's glee at being able to participate in the fighting now that it was more at his level was clear in the fury he put into every axe swing. He was such an indomitable warrior that it mattered little to him that his enemy towered over him even more so than they did Aragorn and Legolas ... his thirst for victory was pure and unyielding, a quality that any who witnessed it could not help but admire.

But Gimli's axe was not suited to fighting such lengthy blades, and the span of Aragorn's own weapon was too much of a hindrance in the tightly clustered trees. Legolas was the only one well enough equipped with his knives, having been armed for millennia to fight in such confined spaces ... but he could not hold them on his strength alone, and they were being forced ever back towards the brink.

-(())-

Boromir's hold on the two hoods kept all three on the trunk as the root end dipped with a cascade of falling land. Even as they turned and watched, horror welding their feet to the crumbling surface, the water streaming from the sloping earth ate away at the slip of dirt anchoring the end of the tree in place –

"_MOVE_!"

Cautious steps were no use to them anymore. The rotted wood came away in great chunks at the onslaught of their sprinting feet, desperate to throw them off and end its agony. Even as they tore for the far bank the weak hold at the root end gave in, slipping in a fall of mud for the pitching waters below. Boromir thrust a palm into each back and shoved them violently the rest of the distance and onto the scree slope, using the plunging wood himself for one final push.

It was enough.

He lay for a moment, vainly trying to convince his heart to stay in his chest. The shouts of the others and clashes of blades were a distant sound, something miles away for which he held little care. They were alive, through some grace of the Valar, they had made it and not been swept away to their deaths. All that stood between them and true safety was the towering incline of scree, a virtually vertical plate of unstable rock shards and water-logged mud. After conquering death, however, Boromir did not feel that something as pathetic as thirty feet of loose stone and dirt was anything to be overly concerned about. He staggered to his feet, mindful of the threat the land held, and hauled the hobbits up, urging them towards the forest above.

He did not know then how misplaced his sense of safety was.

Some of the rocks they tried to use as leverage to drag themselves up the slope proved deceptive, coming away completely in their hands and showering their heads with stone. Suddenly, thirty feet felt like three hundred to Frodo. He was behind, always behind, his eyes whenever he dared lift them being greeted by an ever increasing distance between himself and Sam and Boromir. They were too busy in their own struggle to reach level ground to pay any heed to his floundering efforts, not knowing that his shoulder flared with every movement and that every upward motion sapped his strength. His hands were numb from cold and his clothes were thoroughly drenched through, the relentlessly pounding rain mocking his silent prayers for it to give him some relief. He was tired, _so_ tired, and his joy when he next dared raise his eyes was almost insurmountable when he realised there were little more than ten feet between him and safety. The other two were waiting for him on the solid and level earth, the relief he felt reflected in their faces at his coming.

But the sound of cascading stone was laughter in his ears when the land played its cruellest trick and carried him away in a rush of cutting stone. His hands slapped uselessly at anchored rocks as his body streaked past them, the appalled faces of Boromir and Sam rapidly becoming smaller. By some immeasurable mercy, the flow stopped when he was above the brink. He lay as still as his uncontrollable shaking would allow, giving no mind to the sharp sting of the cuts on his hands as he dug them into the semi-solid surface. His entire world was engulfed in life and breathing and not moving, no frantic shouts from Boromir and Sam reaching his ears...

Then he felt it. An echo in his heart, singing forlornly in his stillness to those it knew desired to listen. And they heard. With every fibre of their distorted beings, they listened to its cry, and there was no possible measure of concealment deep enough to shield him from them now. He felt them behind him. They were all wrong when they had thought the Wraiths were all on the opposite bank. Frodo rolled from his belly and stared up into the empty hood.

-(())-

"Ha! Come back, cowardly rag!" Gimli's euphoric and mocking shout followed his Nazgûl in his retreat down the slope. "Bested by a dwarf! Methinks you'll think twice next time before taking on one of Durin's folk!"

Behind him, the clashes of steel likewise fell to nothing, and despite his words he was only just able to suppress his shudder as the other two shades all but glided past him. They were backing up, keeping their faceless hoods on their combat partners as they levelled out at the foot of the incline. Gimli heard his friends come to his side and flashed them each a triumphant grin. But what little he could see of their faces spoke only of confusion as they both stared unblinkingly at their enemies, breath condensing before them in shallow panting bursts.

"Sparring with the hobbits is more taxing." A note of worry lined Aragorn's words, and he could see in the silver gleam of Legolas' eyes as they caught the dimness that he shared the same sentiment.

"Who cares, look at them!" Gimli gloated, a little annoyed that his partners clearly did not share his sense of victory. "See them flee! We should never have run ourselves." He gave a self-satisfied chuckle, waving his axe at their foes in one last gesture of his dominance and flinging a few choice Dwarvish curses at them.

"They aren't fleeing," Legolas observed quietly. "They're walking away..."

There was something more chilling about hearing it declared as fact, something that settled a deep unease on Aragorn's heart like a winter fog over a thicket. Watching the Wraiths meld silently with the darkness until they were nothing more than a shadowed memory in the night only served to further his disquiet. Their disappearing like that made his soul quake with the sense that they were everywhere at once, like smoke and air. Untouchable themselves, but able to reach across the void to crush them all with iron-clad fists...

"But _why_? Why would-"

"_STRIDER_!"

The anguished cry of a hobbit – Merry, he recognised – jarred his attention from the blank stillness that shielded their enemies. The ranger spun on his heel and tried to run to aid his wards, the grasping mud feeling like it attempted to haul his feet down into some crushing embrace in its efforts to slow him reaching the hobbits. As he fought his way to Merry and Pippin's side, he concluded that the elf wasn't all that wrong about the evil intentions of the land...

He only realised the real truth of Legolas' earlier conviction when his eyes settled on the crippling scene across the ravine that had invoked such terrible desperation in Merry's shout. He knew then as his heart stopped and his stomach plummeted the sheer magnitude of his error.

It was akin to watching a warg pack toying with a fawn before tearing it apart. This was it, this was the trap all along, and Aragorn had allowed them to play him like a fiddle. He was only dimly aware of Legolas joining him, hearing the elf's breath hitch in his chest at the sight of what was about to play out.

Frodo surrounded by Nazgûl, stranded and alone and helpless in the face of his oncoming death, unable to move as the long black blade of the Witch-king arced and made to descend in the one fatal blow it would take to kill the defenceless Bearer and claim their ultimate victory. Boromir was struggling with the near-vertical incline, his own sword drawn and his face desperate to get to the aid of their small companion ... but he would be too late, he was too far away –

He realised too late that Legolas had removed himself from his side. And he could do nothing to stop him when he understood what the elf's intentions were, as a tall mass of grey and green streaked past him, the greedy mud gaining nothing of him as his feet sprinted its surface as though it were a solid track. The utter powerlessness that consumed Aragorn as he watched his best friend launch himself from the disintegrating edge elevated in his unintelligible cry of dismay and loss.

-(())-

This was it. This was death, this was the end. There was nothing beyond the keen edge of the tainted plains of steel bearing down on him, nothing save a chasm of unending space. He choked on his own breath, his heart forgetting what it was to beat rhythmically and without pain as his wide eyes watched the descending blade with morbid fascination, until it reached a point where his numbed mind recalled what it meant and he could not stand to look any longer. Life. He wanted to live, he wanted to see the Shire again, he didn't want to die yet, and he threw his arm over his face, shrinking back into his stony deathbed to get as far from the inevitable as possible –

But the expected strike never hit. Stone shards and mud sprayed in his face and metal shrieked agonisingly as blades came against each other. An angered screech erupted from his would-be executioner, echoed by the others in a climbing cacophony of billowing rage. Heaving unplanned air into his lungs was shock enough to kick his body back to functioning as a living entity. His eyes prised themselves open, and Frodo didn't fully understand what he saw through the streaking rain...

The Valar knew how, but it was Legolas. Virtually on top of him, the elf was crouched on one knee, twin knives crossed before him with the fell blade of the Witch-king locked in their biting embrace. His arms trembled with the effort of stopping the weapon of their enemy, having elected a vulnerable position in favour of blocking Frodo's death. His back foot fought to get under him, but the unstable stone kept slipping from under his boot and rendered his efforts futile.

"Frodo," Legolas gasped through gritted teeth. "_Go_!"

Legolas did not wait for Frodo to get out of his way. Giving up his struggle to recover his footing, he made a move that both Frodo and the Witch-king least expected and threw his hold on the Nazgûl blade away to the side, flinging his weight down onto one shoulder and lashing out with his feet to deliver an almighty kick. The hobbit's limbs were forced to remember what it was to move at the elf's violent manoeuvre, only just getting out of the way ... something the Witch-king did not succeed in. The absolute power of the blow would have left any other being gasping and prone on the slope, but the Witch-king's damnable existence barred such pain. Still, the Nazgûl stumbled back in a rare moment of lost preternatural grace as the elf's strike hit his gut. For Legolas, the lull was enough. He brought himself to his feet and adopted his favoured fighting stance just in time before the onslaught of black fury and crudely-crafted steel.

Frodo found the utter violence and speed of the battle frightening. Though he stood alone, Legolas' prowess was deathly beautiful. His opponents might outnumber him, but he showed no fear in his fight, just a pure destructive aggression delivered with a kind of poise Frodo had never before witnessed. His movements were so fast and pinpoint accurate that it seemed to the hobbit that he was the embodiment of cold skill, a weapon in himself, and Frodo was so transfixed by the horror and beauty of what was happening that he couldn't move.

Legolas parried, throwing one blade away from himself and blocking an attack to his flank in the same instance. There was no time to reflect on his actions as a fresh assault called the attention of his reflexes to defend himself again, twisting into the strike and succeeding in turning it to his advantage as he managed to get the attacking Wraith too close to one of his companions, drawing an angered screech from the demonic being as his fellow's sword nearly gutted him.

Droplets laced his lashes, merging with water streaming from his crown straight into his eyes as the rain sought to wash the land from under his feet. He was so utterly sodden that his every move was marked in the air by flying rivulets of water. The hilts of his knives were so slick with wet he was constantly forced to readjust his grip, making the small ring of defended space he occupied barely tenable. Everything was a blur of water and steel and towering darkness, darkness so very complete he could see no way past them. Legolas had fought against them before, but never so many and never with such intensity.

_Never on my own._

They feared his knives, he knew that; elven blades were said to be the only type capable of actually harming a Ringwraith ... but he feared striking them just as much. Elven-crafted or otherwise, if his knives struck true, the steel would disintegrate in a billow of dust and leave him utterly defenceless. All he could do for Frodo was be no more than a distraction, not eliminate the threat. A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing, and the Wraiths knew the elf's predicament. For them, it was only a matter of time...

-(())-

Across the ravine, Aragorn prowled the narrow ledge in a search for something, _anything_, to get him to his friend. Desperation clutched his heart in a suffocating panic as his lack of options loomed into a more solid certainty. There was no additional bridge, no fallen tree either old or otherwise, nothing but completely impassable raging floodwater. The Nazgûl had planned their trap well, and they had predicted Aragorn's actions with cleaner accuracy than any of them had foreseen.

He had damned them all.

"But we have to help them!"

The words from behind him were a shower of glass shards to Aragorn's torn soul. Pippin would not let what he perceived as inaction lay, no matter how fervent and logical Gimli's returning argument. "Confound it, lad, we can't get to them! There is no way to cross!"

"But we're _abandoning them_!" It did not help when Merry added his own objections to Pippin's. The pair were good at backing each other, a result of a close relationship spanning the years of childhood and beyond. _Not unlike us, mellon nin. _Aragorn lifted his eyes back to the ill-matched battle, watching every sword stroke, every parry, every defensive block. Even in this, one of his darkest hours, Legolas' lithe form exhibited pure and fluid grace; a flaxen spirit, the embodiment of the might of the Eldar pitting himself against the prevalent disease of Mordor.

And Aragorn was watching, just watching.

_Watching_...

Standing by and merely waiting for an outcome did not sit well with any ranger ... but for Aragorn, it was agony. Observing his best friend embroiled in a battle with impossible odds was torturous. No way to cross, no way to help; he had a bow and quiver as Pippin had sharply pointed out, but he did not have the skill to wield it during a storm in the dark, aiming at constantly shifting targets and relying on luck more than skill not to kill his friend. No. He could do naught but stand there _praying_ that the end would be in Legolas' favour, even as the heavens tried to wash him away and the land gave him no sound purchase, slips of stone pulling his feet from under him as he battled to keep the Nazgûl from Frodo...

But the fact was, Legolas was losing ground to them. As fierce as his fighting was in defence of his charge, he wouldn't be able to hold out against them for much longer, not against five. And they knew it, just as well as Aragorn. Having sparred with the elf more times than he cared to remember, the ranger recognised the growing signs of fatigue in his movements, the give in his footing that could not be attributed wholly to the unstable scree, the slight difference in the way he used his shoulders and the too-close blocks he was being forced to perform to stay the black blades...

But to Frodo, he seemed untouchable.

Frodo's fear had him paralysed, locked in a suspended moment of fixed terror. He wanted to run, with every breath he had ever taken and wished to yet, he wanted to flee ... but the idea of abandoning Legolas to the Nazgûl was an too abhorrent to fall within his scope of acceptance. To just leave the one who risked his life for him with such towering odds against his own survival was the utmost treachery to the hobbit. There was nothing Frodo himself could do to aid him, but he would stay. His head knew that was the wrong decision, a dangerous and foolish commitment to someone he barely knew ... but his heart refused...

And nearly gave out completely when a thick arm closed around his chest and lifted him bodily, flinging him round and heading up the scree slope.

Frodo filled his crushed lungs and gave a strangled scream, thrashing his body and flailing his feet desperately, his hands pulling and clawing at the limb with which his captor had him pinned, his nails slipping over a leather gauntlet slick with wet and snagging in chainmail before they found thick and rich cloth -

"Boromir!" Relief flooded him, warm and dazzling at the discovery of his unexpected saviour. Finally, there was hope for them, for Legolas. They could defeat the Nazgûl now, Boromir's might and skill with a blade presented him with a chance to give something back to the one who faced death for him. But Boromir was not looking at the fight, he wasn't even pausing: his feet strained to take him back up the slope, taking them _away_ from the battle.

"No – Boromir, wait, we have to go back!"

His words went unheeded.

"_Boromir_! We can't _leave_ him!"

"We can, and we must," Boromir hissed, grabbing a rock and in his free hand and hauling them up. The rock came away and sent them down several feet before the big man could catch his fall. He started again. "He has accepted this as his oath: you must accept it too."

-(())-

What was Frodo's salvation was Legolas' end. The hobbit's scream snagged his attention for a split second too long and his defences slipped beyond a recoverable point. He didn't hear Aragorn's dismayed cry at the sword's bite, or his own keening exclamation of pain and surprise. There was only fire. His body acted without him, folding around the sword at his side and coiling into the wet stone and dirt...

-(())-

_Mirkwood, October 21__st_

He was not accustomed to visiting such a place. There was no-one else around, and he felt something of a vulnerable intruder, a mouse venturing too far into a kingdom of cats. His senses were almost overwhelmed with the unfamiliar, particularly the smell: leathery and nearly overpoweringly metallic with the dry cold of cave stone, a thin layer of burning sconce oil slipping through. He walked through chamber after chamber of weaponry, the tools of their defence wracked in neat rows of gently glinting swords and knives, longbows similarly held with new arrows patiently awaiting service.

A member of the council he might be, but was it not the council that saw to the running and finances of Mirkwood's defences? Was it not the council that directed the people who would rush in here to take up arms and possibly never return? It felt somewhat surreal to him that an area of the grounds he last visited over three centuries ago should be so intrinsically entwined and influenced by his own decisions.

Daerahil cast a careful tawny eye over the table he had reached in the far chamber, taking full stock of the neatly laid items. Their orderly display troubled him, a seed of unease settling in the pit of his stomach. It was not a frequent occurrence for _all_ of them to be needed at once, the presence of some denoting the planning of something serious, something the king was very likely to not approve. Thranduil's fury would be unparalleled...

He extended a long hand to one of the objects, his fingers wrapping around the fine gold filigreed bone handle and testing the weight. A thing so ornate and so deathly perilous at the same time, he could not help but admire such a brilliant example of the skill of his people. In a moment of curious abandon, he brought a stray strand of pale honey into the blade's path, marvelling at the lack of pressure it took to send the departed hair floating to the floor. He recalled when this knife and its fellow had served their previous owner, and he caught a glimpse of his own sadness at the recollection as a perfect plane glimmered his own eye back at him. The balance was perfect, but the grip was not for his hand, giving the knife an alien feel; Daerahil's weapon of choice was his tongue, and he employed it well in the council. Blades he had never really become accustomed to. He could use them, yes, but his skill with one was comparable to a child next to the abilities of the current wielder of the knives.

The elf lord replaced the long blade in its sheath beside its twin, moving over the rest of the table and lingering occasionally, running a curious finger along the sharp edge of fresh-trimmed fletching and testing the new bowstring. Two well-used hunting knives - not nearly as ornate as the white knives but just as sharp and with more practical uses - shared a soft leather cloth with a whetting stone. _He is serious indeed_.

'He' entered the armoury with cat-like silence, but the elf lord had felt his coming. Daerahil knew surprised eyes alighted on the back of his neck and smiled to himself. "Come now, Thranduilion," he quipped in way of greeting, "surely Noldor politics are not _this _dangerous." He tipped his head meaningfully at the table, throwing the prince a wry grin.

Legolas did not return the gesture. He recovered quickly from his surprise at unexpectedly finding his father's closest friend and advisor surveying his table of weaponry, adding a much smaller knife for trimming fletching to the collection. "I think we both know that I do not just go to Imladris to attend a council meeting." Legolas did not grant the older elf so much as a glance, and Daerahil was under the distinct impression that his presence was not wanted. The prince flatly ignored him, handling his quiver and checking the straps for weak points before hoisting it onto his back.

Daerahil frowned, troubled by the darkness in the younger elf's demeanour. He backed from the table, allowing Legolas fuller access to the crowded worktop. The elf lord observed quietly as the prince checked over his armaments with an expert eye. He had discovered long ago that the easiest way to provoke Legolas into discussing his concerns was to remain quiet until the prince broached the topic himself, an understanding that had existed between them since Legolas was very small: Legolas talked, Daerahil listened, and Thranduil never heard.

Daerahil was the closest to an uncle that Legolas had, and he loved him as such. Following the discovery of a scorch mark on a fine and rather ancient desk, coupled with an upset candle and a pile of unsuspecting and long worked-over trade documents, coming to a peak with a very tearful confession from a young child, Daerahil had unwittingly become the prince's confidant. Daerahil's rebuke had been strong, but his pity had been stronger and invoked him to take the blame on the child's behalf. Even when the child grew to an adult with responsibilities and power in his own right, he still needed someone to talk to, someone who was _not_ his father that understood him; Thranduil was a loving father, but he could also be somewhat brash and single-minded. Daerahil was detached enough to respect Legolas' wishes, and close enough to care.

It was because of this that the trouble weighing on his heart like a stone could not go unvoiced. "You've been having the dreams again, haven't you?"

Legolas stilled in his task momentarily at the quiet question. He blinked and turned away slightly, a little too late in trying to hide the shadow in his eyes from Daerahil's keen observance. As much as he clearly wished to avoid the topic, the directness of the question did not offer him a hiding place. "Yes," he finally gave edgily, giving the much older elf a flicker of a glance before busying his attention with secreting one of the hunting knives carefully in his right boot. "Every night for some weeks now."

Daerahil stiffened. These dreams that often stemmed into nightmares had occurred on and off for nigh on two centuries. Their content and consistency were enough to warrant concern and had led to many hushed discussions between the Houses of Oropher and Elrond to which the prince had not been party. It was agreed that the dreams held a prophesising quality, but their outcome was impossible to determine as their endings tended to hinge on the smallest change within the dream make-up. Simply too many catalysts marred a true reading even for the powers of Lord Elrond, gifted with foresight himself and far more experienced than all of them. As for Legolas, he carried his dreams with him during his waking hours like an overbearing hand on his shoulder, his expression harried and his character decidedly marked with a quick and perilous temper, occasionally so strong he was the mirror image of his sire.

But something else had come to pass from the prince's dreams.

An accord had been struck between Daerahil and Elrond to which even Thranduil was not privy: at all costs, Legolas must accompany Aragorn when the time came for him to take his place.

The meaning of the prince's premonitions – while chiefly as clear as thick mud – was glaring in the one final truth the inconsistent messages told: Aragorn must reach Minas Tirith and take his place there. All other endings were the ending of all else on Arda, futures in which darkness alone prevailed to the ruin and death of all. The two lords orchestrated the meeting of prince and exile with much careful planning. Initially, they thought their plan doomed to fail due to Legolas' deep-seated distrust of the Second-born, but Elladan and Elrohir's persistent and gentle coaxing at their father's bidding drew his trust out. Daerahil and Elrond were both guilty of playing on Legolas' sense of loyalty to an extent neither of them had a right to.

The consequences of Thranduil's wrath should he discover what Daerahil had done with his only son's future did not bare thinking about ... but it was the consequences to the son himself that knotted Daerahil's gut every time he gave it thought.

His stomach was positively balled up on itself now.

"You are absolutely sure it is time?" He wanted there to be doubt, he wanted Legolas to return in a week from Imladris when the dratted meeting was done ... but Legolas was not a creature of uncertainty, near enough his every deed carried through with utter conviction_. Infuriatingly..._

"The Ring is found." Legolas offered the blunt truth as justification with little requirement of a response. "Its fate is bound to Aragorn's, and the whole of Arda to him." He paused, drawing his knives in one fluid motion and running an expert eye over their planes. "And my fate is just as tethered." His gaze lingered a little too long on the white blades. The light in his eyes dulled with a remembered sadness, similar to the emotion Daerahil had experienced when he handled the fine blades, only much, much stronger.

Then he realised. Everything was so very clear now, too clear. "Oh, Legolas," Daerahil sighed. "Baerahir is gone. Ghosts don't ask the living to avenge them, and he certainly wouldn't ask it of you. You won't bring him back."

Legolas stiffened. He finally fixed his blue eyes on his mentor, aggressively sharp in the flame's flicker. "But do you not see? Baerahir should never have died. Or Haru, or Naneth..." He stopped, swallowing his pain before he continued, offering Daerahil a very tight smile: "Estel is very aptly named, Daerahil; what would it make me if I could help him rise and save my people, but remain here instead? Everything has been leading to this point. This is the juncture of change, and I will see it through. Whether I live beyond the outcome is immaterial."

"Legolas..."

"Don't try to stop me, Daerahil, please." There was honest plea in the prince's voice, a pained and unwilling sound. "My mind is set, and I will have enough of a battle with Ada when he learns my intentions."

"Yes, I know that," Lord Daerahil returned, a gentle grin tilting his lips and a fond sadness in his eyes. "I was _trying_ to say, come back to us." The sorrow in his heart stripped the strength he had to hold the grin, instead etching pained lines into his forehead. _What in the name of all that is good have I done?_ "Ai, Legolas, please come back to us."

He hated that Legolas smiled back at him warmly, the gesture holding far more affection than Daerahil knew he deserved, love unknowing of his betrayal shining in his eyes. Legolas extended a hand to Daerahil's shoulder and clasped it with firm, reassuring gentleness. Daerahil carefully nestled the touch in his store of memories, already convinced that this would be the last time he would see the soft smile in those clear eyes, or witness the quiet strength of the prince's heart. He understood that Legolas' motives went beyond Aragorn, beyond Arda, even beyond his unwavering sense of duty to his people. It was likely to kill him, but he would go out into the dark nevertheless. _Just like his brother did..._

"Peace, Daerahil, he only goes to Imladris to convey a message!"

The two elves started at the king's entrance. Thranduil smiled genially at them, a relaxed and soft expression he had little opportunity to wear these days. _It will not stay that way_, Daerahil could not help but think as Thranduil joined his side.

The king's grey eyes moved between his son and best friend at first with jovial curiosity, then clearly mounting suspicion at their silence and awkward shared glance. The silvered eyes narrowed a little, catching amber in the torchlight. "What goes on here?"

"I think," said Daerahil slowly, "that you have much to discuss with each other. I take my leave." He offered Legolas a reassuring smile at the prince's horrified expression before he departed.

Several millennia might have passed since he rescued a small boy from his father's wrath, and the boy might have matured to a highly respected figure in his own right, but with every fibre of his being, Daerahil saw the boy still ... and he felt that he had led the boy into the woods and left him to the wolves. Every footfall that increased the distance between them scarred his soul with guilt and deepened the awful sense of foreboding that possessed his mind. Even as he left the armoury, the sweet touch of fresh air did nothing to assuage his worry.

-(())-

"What's he talking about? What do we need to discuss?" The suspicion was very firmly set now. Thranduil's eyes quickly scoured the table, taking in the various paraphernalia of warfare with a new eye, and finally to his armed son. Then, a little firmer: "Why are you so armed to attend a council meeting, Legolas?"

Legolas' hesitation dominated the short distance between them, unintentionally making barely three feet three leagues. Past arguments loomed in his memory, and the gap of understanding began to yawn before him like an impassable chasm. He knew with a sinking feeling that his father would never understand his motives or give his greatest need any form of blessing. Unable to find voice for what he needed to convey, he lifted his cerulean stare to his father, the steady and apologetic gaze confirming what Thranduil's heart already knew.

Disbelief blossomed across the king's visage, quickly replaced with a flat denial broaching no opportunity for debate. "No."

"Ada..."

"Do not _Ada_ me!" Thranduil hissed, his face pinched in sudden panicked anger. "You honestly believe that you can leave your people in their greatest time of need to prowl Arda on some mortal's foolish mission? And what of your command? Will you abandon your duties as readily as you abandon your people?"

The words stung, but Legolas held fast against them, a sea wall accepting the pounding of the storm-riled ocean. He understood the hurt behind their source and kept his tone civil. "Laehril has been my second long enough for me to entrust command to him. He knows his duty and he knows what is expected of him in my stead."

"_Duty_?" Thranduil snorted. He shook his head to himself, the pale gold hair his son had inherited catching the sconce-light and radiating such a deep amber it was as though he were wreathed in flame himself. "From the foolishness spouting from your mouth, it seems to me that you know less of duty than I thought."

The disdain in the father's voice was too much for the son to bear with good grace. "You always taught me that your word was your bond," Legolas defended, his voice rising with his anger. He checked himself, suppressing his tone before it became too aggressive, but his eyes were hard as he asked stiffly: "Or does that teaching not stand if your word is to a mortal?"

"I _also_ taught you not to betray your people!"

"Don't you see, Ada? It is my people I betray if I stay! Aragorn -"

"_Aragorn be damned_! You can't go, and that is _final_. I will not have you walking into danger with such reckless abandon!"

"_Danger_?" Legolas could not stop the incredulity snaking into his tone, pushed too far by his father's open disregard of his best friend. "You are so willing to send me out to ambush orc battalions and lead assaults against the Dark Tower, and you say _this _is dangerous?"

"Do you delight in reminding me of the risk I place on your shoulders?" Thranduil snapped. He paced in aggravation, placing the table between them, widening the gulf. His finger stabbed meaningfully at the tabletop with such force that the few remaining implements jumped. "You will _stay_, Legolas!"

Legolas shook his head to himself, pure frustration bending his barely restrained control beyond the respectful boundaries of king and prince and deep into the vicious world of father and son. "I have been an ellon for nigh on three millennia, and yet you still insist on treating me as a child-"

"BECAUSE YOU ARE _MY_ CHILD!"

The outburst stunned them both into silence, the very air thrumming with Thranduil's grief at his only son's intentions. The threat of loss was so very real to the elven king that it was as though Legolas had already been slain. The sheer force of Thranduil's love was tearing him apart, it was crippling him, and it was all he could do to grasp the table, his back bent with the agony in his heart. "You are my child..." There was no king in his voice, no commanding lord betrayed by a captain's strong will, but a father, his fears laid bare to the too-cruel world as the one son he had left deigned to abandon him on a fool's errand.

Neither moved. Legolas was frozen to the spot, staring at the bent form of his father, a powerful and respected figure brought down by his single determined resilience. He did not make a habit of defying his father, his king, but there was no choice for him, not any more. If his decision lay beyond his father's comprehension, then that was the way of it... But his own solid convictions did not stop his heart from tearing with the pain he caused his only flesh and blood.

His attention came crashing back to his surroundings with the awkward clearing of a throat behind him.

Laehril stood in the entrance, looking decidedly uncomfortable. The Silvan elf settled his eyes rather sheepishly on his prince and commander. "Please forgive my intrusion, Sires; you requested I alert you when your company was ready to depart, Prince Legolas. They await you now."

Legolas nodded politely, apologising to his friend for his discomfort with an appreciative smile. "Thank you, Laehril. I will be out presently."

Laehril bowed, offering Thranduil a respectful: "My King" before he all but fled.

Legolas sighed, his anger completely sapped from him and leaving him utterly drained. He never wanted their parting to be this way ... of course, he understood now that it was foolish of him to have imagined it any different. Thranduil often stated that their family was cursed, and Legolas was inclined to agree. Knowing the loss they had suffered as keenly as his father, he understood his sire's upset at his plans to leave. His going sparked the worst kind of foreboding in his chest. Not for himself, but for the one he left behind. What if he _didn't _come back? If he _were_ killed, what would that do to Thranduil? Still, despite his misgivings, all he could do now was give a respectful and formal bow. "Namàrië, Ada." Legolas hesitated, watching Thranduil's bowed head for a response. When none came, he quietly picked up the remainder of his weaponry and turned to leave.

"Legolas ... please, my son, don't do this."

The words arrested his heart more than they did his feet, his resolve nearly crumbling at their broken plea. But there was no choice for him. There never had been.

"I'm sorry, Ada."

Only when the hooves of the horses had dimmed to nothing, consumed by the jealous trees, did Thranduil look up, unashamed at the tracks marring his face with their passage. He straightened, the familiar emptiness hollowing his chest as it had all those years ago. Still, he passed his fist over his heart and extended it from his body, even though no-one was there to witness it. It meant more to him that way. "Nai tiruvantel ar varyuvantel i Valar tielyanna nu vilya."

_May the Valar protect you on your path under the sky._

-(())-

Now, as Legolas lay curled around his wounded side and consumed by a pain that presented him with no possibilities of its end, he felt the crippling and devastating sense of complete failure threaten to engulf him. Lifting his face from the stone and forcing his eyes to penetrate the hazes of pounding rain and fogging agony, he managed to discern the bent and struggling figure of Boromir, fighting his way up the merciless incline with Frodo clenched to his chest. The Nazgûl, blessed with the unnatural capabilities of the damned, were closing on them fast, having forgotten the elf as something slain and unimportant. They would reach his flailing companions, and every loss, every sacrifice, both now and three thousand years before, would be for nothing.

If he stayed still, if he kept his position and allowed events to play out, it was quite likely that Aragorn would be able to reach him at some point. Perhaps not some time very soon, but _at some point_. But he couldn't stay there and allow things to pan out as the Dark Lord would intend, he _couldn't._ Legolas damned the Adan and all their clumsiness, and he cursed Boromir all the stronger with tears stinging his eyes at what he was being forced to do as he dragged first one knee, then the other beneath himself, hauling himself to his feet. No sooner was he upright then his pain forced itself from his throat in an agonised wail, his knees buckling and impacting heavily on the sharp scree.

-(())-

The tears fell unhindered and completely lost in the rainwater as Aragorn watched Legolas struggle to his feet. He did not need to see the wound to know that it was serious, that his friend was in terrible, terrible pain ... that much was evident in the way he fought to rise, his usual grace lost like a pebble in a landslide. _He has to stop moving!_ "Legolas, stay down! You have to stay still, mellon nin! You _must _stay still!"

His shouts went unheeded as the damaged figure across the ravine found his feet at last.

"_Legolas_!"

-(())-

Aragorn's voice battered at him over the rage of the racing water and hard scorn of the wind. The words were barely discernable to him through the heavy blanket of hurt. Legolas could not find the strength to focus on the meaning of Aragorn's cries and push his body through the barrier of pain at the same time, it was simply too much.

All he _was_ able to do was listen to the sound of his friend's voice, blocking the desperate plea in it and focusing instead on the fact that it was _Aragorn_, his best friend and dearest companion. He did not feel quite so lonely in his decision with the constant company of that voice, a voice with which he had shared many moments of mirth and companionship, sadness and victory. It was all he had left. Even now, in his final darkest moment, his friendship with Aragorn was enough to make him go beyond his pain and drag the last vestiges of his strength forth.

Because it was for Aragorn.

Regret ate at him at what he was to leave behind, and he hated himself for the desperation he could hear in his friend's cries as they pierced his resolve to not hear them. _I'm sorry, my friend; I've made my choice._

Legolas forced himself into a determined run, sheets of loose stone sliding under his feet with a vicious determination to undo his efforts. He drew his bow and pushed his run up into a sprint...

While the scree slope was for the most part a treacherous and unpredictable mass of shifting mud and stone, Legolas had spotted one element of its makeup that could save Boromir and Frodo: a jutting length of thin and poorly-anchored rock formed a shelf in the unstable face a mere ten feet directly above the advancing Nazgûl, somehow supporting a hulking mass of collapsed dirt and stone dumped by the water draining from the land above. The sheltered overhang beneath it would eventually be its undoing, as the streaming water steadily devoured the unprotected mud holding it in place. For Legolas, it was his last chance at redemption ... and he took a grim pleasure in the dismayed screams of the Nazgûl at their realisation that he was both alive and still a very real threat as he shot past them.

He leapt –

"_Legolas_ – DON'T!"

Aragorn's dismayed cry of realisation and terror crippled his heart, and he was sorry, so, _so _sorry ... but there was nothing to be done for it as he descended on his target, wielding his bow like a sword and gouging deep under the slab of stone -

It worked.

The ledge gave out like some hulking wounded creature finally succumbing to the inevitable. The land lurched free of its restraint, tumbling over itself in its eagerness to fly the cliff edge into the whitewater below, and there was nothing in its path that could possibly stay its release.

Across the ravine, Aragorn screamed his grief into the storm as he saw the earth consume the pale gold figure he counted dear as a brother, carrying him away in a merciless mass of dirt and stone to share the same fate as the enemies he strove to defeat.

Translations: Ada - Father

Naneth – Mother

Haru – Grandfather

Namàrië – be well/fare well


	8. Chapter Eight: Thistle and Weeds

I despise author's notes, but I'm going to break my own rule and slap one in here. Firstly, a massive thanks to all who reviewed the last chapter; 19 reviews! I don't think I've ever had so many for one chapter! Thank you!

Secondly, I'm so, so sorry for the lateness of this chapter. Ailing laptop. Not as bad as being swept off a cliff face by a few tons of dirt into a raging river of death, but there you go. For a much fuller apology, please see my profile page.

Ghost

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><p>Chapter Eight: Thistle and Weeds<p>

The constricting pain firing through his heart was more than his body could stand. He went down on his knees, the muck offering a shallow and mocking embrace that slathered his trousers in filth and numbed his legs with cruel cold. But for all its scorn, Aragorn did not respond to the intensity of the discomfort, because it could never touch the intensity of his agony. He didn't care. He couldn't. The grief of the others brushed at his awareness, but there was nothing he could do for them, because the terrible truth of what had just occurred left him with nothing more to give. His grey eyes could not leave the scar in the otherwise featureless slope that marked where the ledge had been, where Legolas had been. Perhaps if he stared for long enough, perhaps if he _wished _hard enough, he would come back.

_But we've survived so much together. How can this possibly be it?_

But for all his foolish longings, Aragorn was not a fool himself, and he knew with damning certainty that Legolas would not be coming back, not this time.

Everything might have ceased to continue for Aragorn, but the rest of the world did not falter in its turn; the rain continued to drive with all its spite into his face, and the river – though he would not have deemed it possible before – swelled even more, threatening to eat the cliff from under their feet. Not so far away, the incensed shrieks of the remaining Nazgûl at the failure of their cohorts viciously lashed the night to flayed ribbons … but Aragorn did not care.

Still staring at that fixed point in Legolas' fate, made tangible by the deep tear in the earthy face, the image of Legolas' fall played cruelly in his mind with greater clarity than he would be able to see the prints on his own fingers in sunlight. It was like watching Legolas' ghost swipe the meagre support from under that hulking mass of earth. He would never forget the way the elf spun his back to the collapsing wall of muck as though such an action might shield him, his head and shoulders bunching together as he shied from his own death. He would never forget the flare of intense fear in the blue eyes as they fixed with Aragorn's for the briefest of moments before they were extinguished…

Beside him, the hobbits wept openly. Aragorn dimly felt a swell of gratitude towards his dwarven companion, whose hands each braced a shaking shoulder against his own chest, offering them a support Aragorn was quite simply not capable of; his own pain was too great for him to stand, and he could find no resources within himself for the others.

-(())-

Boromir all but flung the writhing hobbit from his body as he crested the precipice, his abdomen glad to be rid of the close contact with the over-large feet. Frodo might look like there was not an awful lot of fight to him, but those feet were powerful, and by the Valar he had put them to good use. Boromir felt a brief hit of vertigo at the wonderful solidity of the earth under him, and his body struggled momentarily to adjust to it. But there was no time to rest following the trial up the near-vertical incline, or to sooth fresh bruises from lashing feet…

Frodo equally felt the dizzying effects of solid ground, but his burning need to _know_ overpowered his stomach and drove him to his feet. He stumbled through the wave of nausea to Sam's side, all but blanking his rescuer. His loyal companion offered him no greeting, his full attention taken by what lay over the edge. When Frodo looked down through the driving rain and inky blackness himself, the totality of the devastation twisted his gut more painfully than he was sure any fit of sickness ever could...

The entire face was swept clean, nothing but a blank black sheet of more heavily compacted earth left to stare expressionlessly across the water at what remained of the Fellowship. It was completely and utterly devoid of any evidence that minutes prior, five servants of the Dark Lord had met their match in the unbending determination of one elf. They were gone, all six of them ... but what sickened Frodo beyond anything he could stand was that he knew it was only a temporary lull in the pursuit, no more than that. He had witnessed himself – seemingly a lifetime ago – the Nine swept away by the enchanted waters of the Bruinen. Even after falling foul of a river blessed with elvish magic, their evil had not been vanquished. He knew they would return again.

But Legolas would not be coming back. What had happened to him was more final and altogether too consuming. He was simply gone, swept into the raging embrace of the river to share the same fate as his foes.

So much death. Frodo couldn't take any more of this, it was too much, all too much ... first Gandalf, and then a handful of weeks later, Legolas. Both of them immortal figures whose lives collectively amassed to thousands of years. And they were both gone. They weren't on a quest to eliminate evil anymore, not in Frodo's view … calling it a fool's errand was overgenerous, even insulting. And it was wasting lives.

_But Legolas should not be dead_. The thought struck him with the force of a smith's hammer. He needn't have died, he could have been alright. He should be standing with them now, an easy and self-satisfied grin on his face at his own accomplishment, the same expression Frodo had seen him wear when he sparred with Aragorn and emerged the victor. _It could have been prevented._ They were both gone on his behalf … Legolas' action was entirely for Frodo's benefit, and because of him, he was dead. Anger and guilt melded themselves together in his chest until the two were indistinguishable from each other, growing and poisoning him until reason cowed into some dark corner.

"Why did you do that?" Frodo demanded, spinning on the Gondorian as he was rising from the mud. His incomprehension blurred his perception of the situation. To him, Boromir was not a saviour, but an executioner, a vile betrayer. "We could have helped him! He shouldn't have died! He _shouldn't have died_!"

"And what would you have had me do?" Boromir retorted, himself made angry by the weight of Frodo's accusative tone. "Would you have had me deliver you and the Ring to their clutches? Is that what you wanted?"

"We shouldn't have just _left_ him!" Frodo shot back. "How could you _do_ that to him?"

Boromir picked up his mud-caked shield, flinging it over his shoulder with little regard for the dirt; he was that covered himself it hardly mattered if he ruined his clothes any further. He had to act, and now ... the elf had afforded him the greatest opportunity he had ever been given, and he would take it with both hands.

They needed to leave, and quickly.

-(())-

Gimli's affiliation with Legolas had been brief. Whilst they had still verbally sparred with each other and more often than not gotten on each other's wick, there had been a growing understanding there, and the dwarf even dared to think there had been a level between them that they might have called friendship, if either of them had cared to look at it closely enough. The difference between their respected races was something they were edging towards overcoming … not that the rock-headedness of the elf had ever made it a very easy transition. He was forced to admit to himself that neither did he.

How he regretted that now.

But still, he knew that the sorrow he felt – whilst strong – did not hold a flicker of light to what Aragorn had to be going through. Whilst Gimli's knowledge of man and elf had been negligible at best, it had been clear right from the very beginning of this damnable journey that a long history of friendship bound their course together, right from Legolas' defensive stand at the Council, to his apparent foolhardiness with regards to Boromir's painfully obvious resentment of Aragorn's identity. As Gimli cradled the two hobbits through their own heartache, he never stopped watching the rightful King of Men kneeling in the muck to his own grief. Aragorn didn't move. What little was visible of his face showed a broken shadow of their leader, a man so deeply entrenched in raw pain he was beyond consoling, beyond tears. To see such a quietly strong and determined character crippled by loss was a tragedy in itself, and Gimli could only pray that Aragorn would find his way back to them in the end…

Snatches of an argument assailed his ears when the wind's direction cared to twist momentarily from the south bank. Gimli took his attention and turned its focus on the figures at the other side. He could just see their three remaining companions at the edge of the much higher cliff. While Sam seemed to be ignoring what the other two were doing by mirroring Aragorn's behaviour and staring down at where Legolas had made his final stand, Frodo and Boromir were apparently quarrelling beside him.

"Here! What goes on there?"

Gimli's shout seemed to touch something in Aragorn, the part that was still their leader and defender. The ranger prised his eyes away from where such a large part of his life had died, and settled on the situation playing out across the water.

-(())-

"I did it because my oath is toyou and the Ring, not to Legolas, or anyone else on this knew that; don't shame his memory by dismissing his sacrifice." Boromir's gaze flitted across the ravine and locked unerringly with the man he had once grudgingly accepted as leader.

_But not any more_…

He tore his eyes away, breaking the contact, severing the tenuous link they both shared with a foolish past cause he should never have acquiesced to in the first place. He could not stand the stricken grief-torn weakness in those eyes, no more than he could stomach their open and shameless plea to him.

"We have to leave. Now."

Neither of them moved to his command. Sam was apparently so bewildered by what had occurred that he did not care to wipe the water and filth from his eyes, his lips slightly parted in a frozen expression of disbelief. Boromir doubted that the hobbit had actually heard him. But Frodo had heard him, loud and clear. The hobbit's hurtfully disgusted stare spoke more clearly of his refusal to follow Boromir's command than his mouth ever could … but that look of refusal quickly switched to confusion then dismay as the man strode decisively over to him.

"Boromir, what – _no_!" For the second time that night, Boromir hoisted Frodo bodily and swung him over his broad shoulder like he was a badly behaved child, paying absolutely no heed to his protesting kicks and shouts. He heard Gimli calling to him across the clamouring of the storm and bawling of the raging waters below, but he wouldn't raise his eyes to them, not now, and never again. The Fellowship was over, either dead or hopelessly split, and he was done with it. He spun Sam bodily by the shoulder, forcing him to move after him as he carried his fighting master away from the cries of the others, away from those steel eyes and their relentless begging.

This was right.

There was no other way.

-(())-

Aragorn watched as Boromir disappeared into the storm. For all Gimli's panicked calling and Merry and Pippin's frantic shouts to their cousin and friend, only a whisper from the past in his mind's ear got through to him… _"Boromir's heart yearns to save his people: his will is noble and true, but his desperation for them is keener than his loyalty to us, and the Ring knows it has found a strong tool in him. It perceives us as a threat to its return to Sauron's hand, and it will not rest until it sees us all destroyed. Our Fellowship will falter to its will, no matter how hard we try to keep it together. Something is coming for us in the night, Estel, and I fear we do not have the combined strength to repel it."_

He recalled the chill in his core when those condemning words were originally uttered, and they all but choked him now. Legolas had known all along that something like this would happen. His uncannily accurate anticipation of Boromir's deceit made Aragorn's own actions the greatest betrayal to his elven friend. He had been warned and done nothing, _nothing_, handing Boromir the opportunity with a fool's open trust. He should have gone across with Frodo, it should always have been him, it _should always_ have been _him_.

And Legolas had paid the ultimate price for his stupidity.

_Ai, Legolas. What have I done to you? What have I done?_

"…We can't let them go! _Aragorn_!"

"Is there a crossing place?"

"Where's Boromir taking them? Are they going to meet with us somewhere?"

"How are we going to find them?"

The constant barrage of questions battered him as relentlessly as the rain. The naïve questions of the hobbits did not mix well with Gimli's more knowing silence. The dwarf's quiet fury at their betrayal was as palpable as the storm. Aragorn could not bring forth such raging emotion on his part, finding only a disappointed resignation and unbending shame: disappointment in the weakness of Boromir's heart, and shame at his own failure of trust, not just Legolas', but the Fellowship entire, particularly Frodo and Sam. Shame that he had heard but not _listened_, that this betrayal was something he could have prevented had he heeded the warning…

It would be an insult to his fallen friend to linger here, kneeling in the mud in a state of fixed inaction, letting what Legolas had died for slip away from Aragorn's control.

Unsteadily, Aragorn found his feet, dirt plastered to his legs like a dense carpet of leaches, sapping the last vestiges of feeling from his skin and making him ache to the bones with cold. He could feel their eyes on him, and he could feel their expectation of him to arrive at some solution to their problem, their anticipation of his words stilling their own tongues. And why shouldn't they? Aragorn was their appointed leader, and he had an obligation to them that simply _had_ to be greater than his own pain. With a steadying breath, he fought to quell the paralysing pain in his own heart and focus his strength. They needed him.

Aragorn faced his diminished company, but quickly diverted his gaze past Gimli's shoulder, because the pity he saw in each face jolted harshly at his quivering resolve. "We will find a means of crossing," he announced, forcing his tone to be authoritative and filled with a strength he did not feel. "We've a greater chance of fording the river if we head downstream. Once we're across, we can come back and find their tracks, if this damn storm does not wash them away." With that he strode away from them, following the snaking river under the pretence that the waters might indeed either broaden and offer a safer means of fording, or that there might be a bridge of sorts. Aragorn did not expect to ever find the trail of the others, or catch them up. He did not expect them to even successfully find a safe fording place in a river so enraged any day soon. In truth, he followed his heart, hoping against hope that he might yet recover the body of a friend, because only in finding him and laying him to rest could he in part pay his immeasurable dept to him, and say goodbye.


	9. Chapter Nine: The Elder Brother

For author's note, please view my profile.

Happy reading!

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><p>Chapter Nine: The Elder Brother and the Eldar Son – Part One<p>

THE ELDER BROTHER

_Southern Gondor, August 7__th_

It was like riding into a wall. Thick swathes of smoke smothered them, swallowing the dull thunder of hooves and caking their sweating faces in tarry soot. The dense cloak of foul air blotted any landmarks with its ever spreading stain, snagging in throats and assaulting already strained eyes. But for all the efforts of the smoke, he would not allow them to slow; they might be riding blind, but there was nothing about this land even the brightest day could reveal to him: this was _his _land, and these were _his _people, and he was damned if he would not go to their aid.

He was damned if he would not go to his brother...

He tried not to allow himself to focus on the layers of stench coming from the burning town, not wanting to admit to himself that they were probably too late, that they rode towards a funeral pyre. He did not want to think of the townsfolk being beyond their aid.

"We can't go on in this!" The blanket of smog all but strangled the words as they broke free from Graylin his lieutenant, only just reaching the ears of the intended listener.

But he would have none of it, not while there was the thinnest chance. "No, we don't stop! Ride on!"

Boromir's company of one hundred and fifty-two men was ready to ride not ten minutes after Faramir's messenger had brought the news of the attack on Thallion, an orcish arrow embedded in his shoulder and his horse near to ruin with exhaustion. Faramir and his rangers had been staying in the town as a brief stopping point before returning to Minas Tirith after a two month tour of the lower region. They never anticipated a direct attack on such a small and unimportant town, and their fight to defend its people had been fierce and long. The herald – Ren – had only just escaped the boundaries to get help.

That was two days ago.

Despite his urgency, Boromir was forced to check his horse's speed as the land shifted away from them at a sharp gradient, dipping down into the hollow in which the small town resided. The layer of smoke took on a dark glow and the stink intensified. His mount's muscles bunched under him and the animal faltered, snorting and squealing at the power of the stench assailing them. He knew his horse had caught the reek of violent death as the beast halted completely, the other mounts behind him performing in a likewise manner, stamping hooves and spooked neighing churning the thick air.

The wind shifted, sluggishly contorting the hot, smothering blanket and raising it just high enough for their eyes to penetrate its thinner lower layer and down into the hollow. Across the shallow river, Thallion blistered with heat; few buildings had withstood the assault of fire, and those not already burning merely awaited the coming of the inevitable.

And the place was entirely overrun by orcs.

They were everywhere, scuttling through the destruction like fleas on a dying dog and feeding off the misery they created. He could hear fighting over in the far quarter, the screams of terrified civilians and the dying accenting the desperate bite of Gondorian swords against the much cruder implements of the enemy.

It had to be one of the most devastating sights he had ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on. This was a quiet town, a fringe settlement that prospered as a stopping place for the weary traveller from the more southerly reaches of their borders, just as his brother had planned to use it with his men. Now there was nothing here but fire and death, and it cut him to the core to witness the fall of such a gentle and unassuming part of the world. His head could not make full sense of what his eyes were telling him.

It was only when his stare locked with one of the parasites that the spell broke: the orc emerged from a burning house, someone's _home_, with clear satisfaction in his stride and a crude dripping knife held loosely at his side. He paused, sniffing the air like a scavenger seeking further promise of finding something else dead on the wind. By the way the orc lurched in alarm, he clearly picked up on something unexpected, gyrating to unerringly fix oily gleaming eyes on Boromir. The mottled face – a greasy mess of soot and filth and glistening sickly with fresh blood redder than any orc's – twisted into an ugly snarl, sharp yellowed teeth bared like a vicious dog. Revulsion climaxed into pure odium, constricting Boromir's chest and turning his thoughts to little more than violent vengeance, and the hateful shriek of their enemy was drowned out by the piercing yammer of Boromir's horn as he pressed it hard to his lips.

It was like releasing a taut bowstring: rearing and squealing horses threw themselves into the charge, their riders' anger and the animal's own nervous energy making them spill down the slope in a torrent of pure power, ringing steel shimmering over battle cries in a deadly announcement of their intentions. Boromir's horse was first to come to the river. She lunged as she hit the water, the river at such a depth she was forced to bound more like a deer more than gallop. A handful of orcs armed with bows drew their weapons in panic and attempted to quell the number of Boromir's men with black rain, but their actions were too little and far too late as Boromir's prepared mounted archers took them down in a merciless volley, as the entire company surged up the far bank and fractioned out into the streets to deal death to the filth that plagued them.

Boromir ensured his first kill was the beast he had witnessed emerging from the house. That nauseating satisfaction as he strode out with blood dripping from his knife, the staining about his face could amount to nothing more in Boromir's sense of justice, and his sword cleaving the vile monstrosity's face and severing his link with life as he galloped past fuelled his desire to reclaim the land. Black lifeblood marred his mare's chestnut coat as he charged on beyond that first kill and deeper into Thallion's streets. Those of the enemy he and his men encountered were utterly unorganised and devoid of direction, making their assault feel more like pest control than battle.

Things were going well for them, so far as he was able to see: the odds had swung decidedly out of the orcs' favour now that mounted warriors had joined the fray. It was damningly clear that they had enjoyed the run of the town for far too long through their sheer complacency; evidently, they had never thought that Faramir's messenger would make it through and had not bothered with defending the defeated sectors.

He forced his horse to follow the twisting streets deeper into town towards where he knew his brother's men held out for their lives. The heat became more intense, and before he knew what was happening, Boromir was surrounded by burning buildings. The dirty orange of the fires threw the world into a frightening vision of abstract shapes and hues, the smoke so thick and black here that the flames were the only source of light. Disorientated, he halted his mare in the centre of a crossroads, trying to see through the thick air and concentrate despite the searing heat that pushed relentlessly at his limits of endurance. His mare wouldn't stand, too frightened by the sounds and smells and intense heat, spinning nervously with her ears flicking at the different noises that surrounded them. There was no moving air here, nothing fresh. It felt like his lungs were being scorched in his chest, and it was all he could do to issue a few short blasts on his horn as a summons to himself through spurts of choking fits.

The sound of fighting was louder here, they were close, _so_ close ... all he had to do now was seek them out in the inferno –

The failing sentry of joined buildings to his right caved in completely to the will of the fire in an ear-splitting cacophony of sheering joists and collapsing stone, showering them with dust and shards of blisteringly hot masonry. His horse screamed in terror, rearing under him with such violence she overbalanced herself. There was absolutely nothing Boromir could do about it as they both crashed to the hot paving. By no small mercy, he was unhurt, having pulled his feet from the stirrups just in time to get his legs out of the way. On not such a good front, he was now unhorsed, and got to witness his mare rise and bolt for all she was worth through the flaming streets, swallowed from his view by the dark light of the fire. As much as he cursed her for leaving him, he couldn't help a fleeting prayer that she would be alright...

More alright than he was about to be, anyway. Winded, he rolled onto his back, staring momentarily up into the tarry air, and something wholly unwelcome filled his vision, snarling gleefully down on him, black blade gleaming foully in the harsh light –

He didn't have his sword. He threw his body away from the first strike, feeling stone chips of paving bite at the back of his neck. The orc jeered excitedly, relishing the prolonged sport. Boromir rolled again, throwing his hands out and finding his weapon, only to have his steel salvation kicked from his desperate fingers. This was not the death Boromir had envisioned for himself, lying on the ground and being hacked to death by the scum of the earth.

The weapon raised above him once more for the kill, the angular head of crudely crafted steel ready to strike like a viper, its wielder grinning down on him as death personified ... until the arrow pierced his throat. The orc gargled, showering Boromir's face in hot blood before collapsing on top of him and washing his senses with foul stench. He pushed the corpse off, revulsion snagging in his throat and making him gag in the putrid air.

"You took your time," he gasped. "I called the summons ages ago."

"Well, there's a fine thanks," Graylin grumbled, offering his commander a gloved hand. Boromir took it gratefully, righting himself and retrieving his black-stained sword from the dust. It pleased him to see the number of men still mounted who had gathered at his call, and it pleased him all the more to see that one of his soldiers had managed to catch his horse. She made mounting again as difficult as possible, her hooves clattering as she skittered nervously. Boromir took a more forceful command of her, tightening the reins to hold her head and asserting his seat in an effort to master the frightened power beneath him.

Boromir raised his blade high, a display of leadership his men appreciated and releasing the pent up energy of his horse with an authoritative kick. "To Captain Faramir!" The others lifted their own swords in salute to their cause, echoing his cry as they spurred their horses after their captain through the twisting, flaming streets.

It was not long before they found them.

In an echo of Osgiliath, Thallion's market was split into two levels: the market square itself, where travelling salesmen and poorer traders sold their wares, and the upper level, where the wealthier merchants held permanent establishments for the more discerning buyer. Years ago, Boromir recalled he had visited this place with his brother and enjoyed the fervent energy of a lively and prosperous market. He didn't think he could ever reflect on it in the same light ever again.

Though the area was not taken by fire, the scene that greeted his eyes no less devastating. The cobbles were marred with as many bodies as they were smashed stalls. The attack clearly happened on a market day, there were that many dead. Men, women and children lay without distinction of age or wealth, made the same by violent death. Seething over them in dispassionate waves were teeming masses of the enemy, clamouring over themselves to deal the same fate to the defenders of the upper level.

Faramir's men had shored themselves up at the head of the two flights of stairs, a wall of shattered carts and tables and freed masonry forming a barely tenable blockade against the waves of attackers. Men struggled to hold back surges of attackers, their desperate movements showing all too clearly how tired they were, sword swings more in defence than attack. In the face of the onslaught they were suffering, the defenders were few in comparison, some twenty or so in comparison to easily a hundred or more of the enemy, an unfair lack of balance that would only result in eventual defeat and annihilation.

Except, they were alone no longer, and Boromir made it clear to them as the horn sang out once more in a burst of might that reverberated off the enclosing walls, his company surging though the stone archway into battle. He savoured the dismayed expressions of the orcs as they realised how devastatingly events were about to shift from their favour, whirling to this new threat and forgetting their original prey. Over the clamour of enraged orcish screeches, a voice Boromir had so desperately wished to hear again rallied what remained of his men for one final push. _Praise the gods._

Suddenly penned from both sides and outnumbered, the orcs didn't stand a chance, not in the face of the unrestrained fury of Boromir's company. That did not mean they gave in. The fight was furious, creatures with nothing to lose throwing themselves with ardent hatred at those who dared oppose them. Several fell to their ugly weapons, joining the poor townsfolk in their fate. But they did not hold out for long, and the cries of victory bounced from the walls as the last few orcs were finished.

Slipping from his saddle, the first son of Gondor set out to locate his brother. It didn't take him long: he found Faramir passing between his men, checking on the condition of each and every one of them. Boromir couldn't recall seeing his brother in such a state before ... the leather of his jerkin was badly slashed and stained, the right hand branches of the emblem of their realm severed from the rest of the tree and marred with dark red. Now that the threat was gone, Faramir allowed himself to cradle his sword arm to his chest, sporting a particularly deep wound near the shoulder. When his eyes alighted on his older brother, Faramir's drawn face split into an open grin of relief.

"So you _did_ get my message."

"Only just."

Faramir's grin dropped. "Is he alright?"

Boromir smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, he'll be fine. He took an arrow, but it's not life threatening."

Faramir nodded wearily, relief clear on his dirty face. They walked together, assisting the men in carefully lifting the bodies of the fallen and gently placing them at the edge of the square. Boromir appointed a number of his men to clearing the orc corpses onto what few carts there were still whole, utilising a couple of war horses for the task of hauling. They would burn them beyond the town walls. As the two brothers worked, Boromir noted with a swell of pride the number of men saluting his sibling; a tilt of the head here, a quiet murmur of deferential greeting there. Evidently, his younger brother had proven himself during their days of struggle. "You've won their respect," he remarked out loud, feeling that Faramir needed to hear it. Faramir made no response. A glance showed Boromir a dangerously introspective expression. He chose a different angle to entice a happier response: "I'd love to know what you're bribing them with."

His distracted brother gave a snort of mirth at the jibe and he jabbed an elbow into his elder brother's side. But the grin did not remain.

"It wasn't your fault."

Faramir snorted again, the action laced with self derision. "Wasn't it? It was I who was entrusted with the safety of this region, was it not?"

"Faramir," Boromir insisted levelly, "you did everything you could. No-one could have foreseen this, and no-one can blame you for it. You certainly shouldn't blame yourself."

"I do not feel that Father will share your generous opinion."

Ah, yes. Their father. Boromir tried not to consider what their parent's reaction would be to the news of what happened here. He loathed that Denethor resented his younger son, dismissing his efforts as next to worthless, and he hated all the more the fact that he was always the one whose own successes were constantly used to gouge at Faramir's pride. Boromir was the favourite since the moment of his birth, and there was nothing of note Faramir could do to gain their father's approval, no matter how hard he strove. Indeed, Boromir did not like the measures his brother was currently taking to try and win Denethor's recognition. The missions were becoming more risky, the stints in the Wilds and patrols of the tenuously defended Ithilien becoming more prolonged and dangerous. He didn't want to lose his gentle brother to such meaninglessness. A word from Denethor was all it would take to make it end, and yet he would not give it...

They worked in silence for a stretch, their efforts aided by the some of the few surviving townsfolk Faramir and his men had managed to defend on the upper level. There was little talk amongst them, and may faces wet with grief, warriors and citizens alike. But for Boromir, the worst moment was when his brother suddenly shot from his side to a large collapsed stall. He dropped to his knees, digging with feverish abandon through the jagged wood. "Help me!" It was only then that Boromir realised the source of his brother's desperate behaviour as his eyes lighted upon the very small upturned hand just visible under the wreckage. Boromir joined Faramir's side in a heartbeat, bracing his shoulder against the broken frame and lifting its immense weight just enough for Faramir to drag the trapped little girl from its pinning grasp. When both man and child were clear, he dropped the load down, gasping from the effort and feeling the strain contorting his muscles.

The triumphant grin he wore melted when he turned his face to his brother.

Faramir sat amidst the destruction, rocking back and forth and sobbing openly into a mass of curly dark hair. She had to have been of only three or four at most, the little body he cradled with the tenderness of a bereaved father. To Boromir, it made his heart feel as though it had been severed from the rest of his body. _She's just a baby_. There was nothing crueller. Boromir gripped his brother's shoulder in a vain effort to comfort him, fighting his own pain at such an awful thing. "This isn't forever," he toned softly. "We will win this. I swear to you, Faramir, we will win this. For her."

Faramir lifted reddened eyes to his brother's face, pain etched so deeply into them Boromir feared its mark would never be erased. "Will we?" he challenged, open despair brimming in his voice made husky with grief. "Such dreams are madness, Brother, and we have no right to them."

Boromir tightened his hold. "If a means presents itself to me to save our people, I will take it with both hands, Faramir. I swear it to you."

_I swear it._

-(())-

"You really should take something, Mister Frodo. Even just a bite would do you good."

Frodo cast Sam's offering a sideways glance. _Lembas _again. He wasn't hungry for _lembas_. "I'm alright, Sam. I just want some sleep."

Sam sat back against the log they shared, his worry clear on his face. But Frodo could not bring himself to placate his friend by taking the mouthful of food, his very real fears pushing such needs to the back of his mind.

"I'll take some _lembas_, if it's going."

Both hobbits cast Boromir neutral looks across the meagre fire the man had managed to kindle from what little dry wood he had found. Despite their open resentment of him, he tried for an easy and disarming smile. Sam silently handed a fraction of waybread over, not responding to the smile in the positive way the Gondorian had hoped for. Boromir looked down at his food, no longer wanting to acknowledge the stairs he was being given. The piece of _lembas_ twisted through his fingers, tiny crumbs coating his gloved fingers. "I'm not a bad man," he said, trying to break the barrier down. "I know you resent what I've done, and I know you think me selfish, but I have my reasons. Believe me when I say they go far beyond me. If you had only seen the things I have seen..." He stopped himself, shaking his head at the assault of memories.

Neither of them said anything to his offered explanation, and Boromir knew then that there were no words he could say that would invoke any true understanding in them, and he fell into silence, more completely alone than he had ever felt in all his life.

-(())-

At some point in the night, the storm had decided it had had enough of its rampage and finally blown itself into silence. It rained still, but not with any real conviction; were they not already drenched through, it would have proven only a paltry annoyance. Light leaked into the night sky with such reluctance it was as though it feared to look upon the devastation of the land below, almost guilty that it had dropped its guard and allowed such damage to pass. Its grey tendrils brought a cold glow to the deep bellies of the clouds, and it was another hour before their greed was sated enough that they allowed light to touch the weary band struggling after their leader.

The thought of rest was not one Aragorn had entertained. He pursued the agitated run of the river with a dogged determination that weariness could not touch. If he were to stop, the same pain that relentlessly drove him now would consume him, and the promise of the dismal light only served to double his pace now that he could better see where he took them. Aragorn sent his charges into the relative shelter of the trees in an effort to obscure them should unfriendly eyes spot them across the bank; though he was sure the Nazgûl would no longer harry them knowing Frodo and the Ring were across the water, an orc attack was the last thing they needed. Halflings would be what they hunted, and their losses were too great already. Aragorn himself, however, stayed in the open, his silver eyes never leaving the water's edge. _I will find you if I have to trace these banks for the rest of my life. I swear it._

But while his will bent so strongly to his silent vow, his sense knew that what he did was most likely a futile effort, that finding Legolas' body at the banks of a river so swollen was a fool's hope. But he couldn't let go, not yet. Not until he had proof that his resilient and dependable friend was truly gone.

But as keen as his loyalty to Legolas was, Aragorn knew that if he encountered an opportunity to cross the water, he was obliged to take it, because his sense of duty would not allow him to betray his oath to Frodo. Boromir's deceit, while foul in its own way, did not mean that he meant harm to the hobbits he had with him ... indeed, the warrior had always exhibited a great fondness for the halflings. But Boromir's drive to save his own people, as Legolas had pointed out so astutely, was greater than any bond with the Fellowship and their cause, and Aragorn did not doubt that he would be taking Frodo and the Ring to Minas Tirith. It was up to him, as leader of their ever-depleting company, to find the right path and regain control. If the Ring entered the boundaries of the citadel and fell into the hands of the Steward, it could spell ruin for all -

"Aragorn!"

The ranger started at the distant hail, his feet coming to a stop for the first time in hours. He turned to see his stout companion jogging to reach him. The hang of the dwarf's head as he ran, the throwing motion of his legs, and the heavy pounding of his feet on the earth brought Gimli's weariness sharply to Aragorn's attention. The still bleak light made him look all the worse, and Aragorn was suddenly sorry he had not considered rest before. By the time the dwarf came to his side, he was panting quite heavily. "'Strider'," he puffed, "is an apt name for you."

Aragorn gave his stout friend an apologetic smile. "Sorry, my friend. It is the curse of long legs and a distracted head."

Gimli straightened himself, hands on hips and his face impassive behind his beard, trying – and failing – to hide his own fatigue. "Well of course, we Dwarves are creatures of endurance and can keep up with the lankiest of rangers," he said with a sturdy tone of indomitable conviction, "but _they_ can't."

Within the forest's edge, Aragorn could just make out the pair. Having seen that their leader had come to a halt, both hobbits had taken the opportunity for a rest, sitting in the leaf litter with their backs pressed against the hulk of a decaying log. It shamed Aragorn to see the exhaustion that so clearly marked their usually chipper faces. He couldn't help one final glance at the river before he abandoned his pursuit temporarily, retracing his steps to join them and being mindful to check his stride. "You're right," the ranger conceded, offering Gimli a tight smile. "I'm sorry, my friend. I didn't think."

Gimli made a gruff sound in the back of his throat. "T'is fine, lad; you've much on your mind."

"That is not an excuse."

The hobbits were so worn they did not notice him approach, both starting to their feet when they realised he was stood before them. _That is dangerous in itself_...

He lead them to a point a little way back where he had noticed a rocky outcrop just within the tree line. Through some measure of incredibly good fortune, its hollowed formation had remained surprisingly dry in the storm, the beech leaves within its embrace still crisp. Merry and Pippin sank gratefully into its shallow shelter, wrapping their cloaks about themselves and nestling together.

"I will take watch, Aragorn: you need the rest."

Aragorn shook his head. "Thank you, my friend, but it is you who needs the rest more, I feel."

Gimli's eyes softened with pained understanding, that pity Aragorn found so unbearable all too clear, and the ranger turned away from it, leaving the dwarf to his own devices and taking himself to the crest of a role in the land, that he might have a clearer view of the surrounding area. It was not long before the quiet of the woodland became punctuated with the snores of the dwarf, and Aragorn knew himself to be completely alone. Aside from the guttural snores, the forest was entirely too quiet, the air hanging with a weighted silence. The river, ever in the background, relentlessly reminded him of what he had lost with a roaring laugh.

He rubbed his wind-burned face with calloused hands, as though such an action could scrub the awful truth of what had happened away. The Ring was gone, that damned band of golden evil had played a magnificent hand in ensuring their downfall through one of their own. He should have known, and he had failed, completely and utterly, on every level conceivable. The Fellowship was not so much broken as ripped to its very quick. If they did not locate the others, what were they, the remaining four? Little more than a band of different peoples merged together through unhappy circumstances, their one main purpose stripped from them in one night of violence...

Death was not a natural occurrence to the elves, but they could fall like any man to a fell blade, and he had learned long ago the traditions of the elves when they honoured their fallen. The very idea of having to make a respectful tribute to Legolas hurt deeply, but there was nothing to be done for it...

Aragorn felt more than saw the light at first, that feathery touch of a sensation just outside of his powers of description. He did not realise that he had closed his eyes until that point, prising them open to gaze down on his hand in mild disbelief. Liquid gold caught on his ring and coloured his skin a rich amber. Through a crack in the black of the clouds, the sun blistered into a brilliant furnace of light and banished the wolves of night away. Droplets of water, streaking from the canopy in great flashes, captured the vitality of the new sun and made themselves in one moment more beautiful than any precious stone ever mined by Gimli's folk, and there was nothing in the world that greater encapsulated simple beauty in that moment; a true marvel to behold, the greatest miracle of all that something so wonderful could possibly follow a night of such overwhelming evil.

Aragorn started as the ghost of a memory long forgotten brushed against his awareness: a mission with his brothers and a small detachment from Mirkwood under Legolas' command, monitoring orc movements many years ago in the Misty Mountains. It had been an unforgiving night of heavy snow and winds so cold they were near paralysing. And yet he had found Legolas the morning after at the edge of camp, sitting with his legs crossed on a boulder dripping with icicles and all the wonder of a child lighting his eyes as he watched the sunrise, despite the fact that he must have seen many thousands before it. "_This happens every day, Aragorn. _Every _day. No matter what happens, the sun still rises. Isn't that wonderful?_"

"_Ask me that question when I have not slept in the open on a mountaintop, and I might offer you a more favourable answer,_" was his half-amused and half-irritable reply.

Right now, Aragorn finally understood what Legolas had really seen that morning, and every morning thereafter. There was no other time of day or any other condition of weather that would suit his lament more, and he cradled the memory as something delicate and perishable. That was the image of Legolas he wished to keep at the forefront during his lament, not the pain of his end.

"_Ú-reniathachi amar galen i reniad lín_..."

Only the first few words ever made it from him. He couldn't do it, he couldn't suppress the caustic vision of the night before, and he found himself swallowed in grief so intense he collapsed to the sodden earth and cried openly for what was lost.

-(())-

Two leagues and across the river from where Aragorn had finally chosen to rest, the new day bleached another band emerging from the night. Unlike the broken Fellowship, they had not fled for their lives through the ire of the storm, but had sat it out in the shelter of a cave. The pale touch of the light gave their hooded faces the cold illumination of old bone. Like most predatory creatures, they preferred the shelter of the shadow-light.

There were three in total. The unwanted twists in the bottom of the basket, offcuts that did not fit with the rest of society's weave. All of them had pasts darker than any civilised society would ever accept; thieves and cutthroats who had had the presence of mind to leave their townships before they were caught and hanged for their crimes. They had no loyalties to any king or lord, and what little family they had passed them off as dead to their fellows years before. Though they travelled as a troupe, each man was entirely for himself, and no element of fellowship or brotherhood existed between them; just the animalistic instinct to be with others of their own type.

Dal had come to lead them through circumstances manufactured by his own hand. His ambitious and overbearing personality placed the then-leader ill at ease, and he had watched Dal with a hawk-like eye. But even the most wary of hawks sleep, and that was his undoing. Being at the top of their sorry troupe gave Dal the sense of power that he had always aspired to, and as such he ensured that he had the very finest of their gains: his clothes were better, his boots had no holes, and his belly was fullest. He did not fear a knife in the dark as he had given old Galph, because the men he surrounded himself with were too weak to consider overthrowing him. Dal was a king amongst rats, and it suited him.

Storms of the magnitude the world had quailed under the night before were well known to Dal and his company as massive opportunities; having roamed the land for longer than any of them cared to remember, they knew well the routes the unwitting traveller was most likely to take, and they were equally aware of just how many fell foul of such dangerous weather changes. As there were only three of them, they were a smaller band than most that patrolled the wilds in search of such pickings ... but they were every bit as dangerous to the unprepared and naive.

True to his nature, Dal had ensured that they were out of their shelter good and early, before the light could help orientate any lost in the forest or along the river. Past experience told him that the bewildered would make for the river in an attempt to find themselves. Still, his pale green eyes gave the swollen waters a wary look as he picked his way along the rugged stone bank. The river was a fury of white peaks and murky brown silt in the strengthening sunrise, a perilous and violent torrent compared to its normally passive and fordable tranquillity, and if his footing betrayed him, it would prove his end. Here, the terrain was all rock at the river edge, a course and cutting stone platform sharply defining the run of the water. Planes of stone offered a perilous grip to the unsuspecting boot, slick with a film of water that was more than willing to betray the unwary. The river came down into the lowlands over a series of step-like waterfalls before it met finally with the Anduin little more than a league away. The passage of the water was punctuated by stalwart juts of stone interrupting its flow, rising like defiant fists above the torrent.

His belly ached for sustenance, and there was nothing like a good storm to make the river their provider; finding drowned deer was not unheard of, and if such bounty would wash up anywhere, it would be here...

So when he saw the weak sunlight catching in the mass of dirty blond hair of the dead figure stranded by the water, a slow grin angled his lips and brought the cruel light in his eyes to a dark glimmer.

Heavy storms offered the opportunist excellent scrounging at the riverside, but to find a body was an unexpected bounty indeed, and Dal completely forgot the growling of his gut as he picked his way through the boulders ahead of his men, his head in an excited cloud over what he would potentially find.

Dal gave the corpse an appraising look. From what he could see, the body appeared to be that of a formerly healthy and lithe young man of roughly his own age. The river had clearly become bored of its plaything and flung the corpse pitilessly against a large and unyielding step of rock, the body presenting his back to Dal and his feet still in the water. The battered face was only just discernable under its fair caking of dirt and blood, facing the uncaring plane of the boulder as though he attempted to hide from his damning fate. His clothing was sodden and filthy, but the cloak that was twisted about his shoulders and trapped beneath him was oddly dry and clean. Dal wrinkled his nose in distaste at the heavy metallic odour lacing the air, noting with distaste the discoloured water pooled in the natural bowl the body was over. Whomever he had been, he had gotten on the wrong end of someone's sword, and it had apparently proven his end. But Dal cared little for what had brought what had clearly been a healthy character to so cruel a death.

He cared even less when a glint of pale gold caught the rising sun...

A rather fine – though empty - leather quiver adorned his prize's back, intricately decorated but somewhat scarred by its owner's harsh journey through such a rocky river. Yet it was not the quiver that caught his eye: two filigreed hilts of highest-quality bone entangled in matted blond hair presented themselves to him like an offering from the gods. The clear high value of them staggered him for a moment, and he almost salivated with desire to own them. If the hilts were so beautiful, the blades themselves could at worst only be equal to their majesty; his mind reeled at the thought of how stunning the entire weapon must surely be...

Slightly shaking hands stretched out, their fingers spidering about the hilts, adjusting to the cold bone and drawing the blades. They were longer than he expected, and more stunning than he could ever have imagined. Identical to the very tip, the knives were a spectacular example of the finest craftsmanship, intricate tendrils of patterning running most of the way down the planes to taper off with an elegant flourish and compliment the subtle curving of the blade ends. He had never seen anything so wonderfully crafted in all his life.

And they were _his_.

"Drop them, Dal!"

Dal jumped at the panicked shout, spinning round and snatching his hands back so fast he nearly sliced himself, immediately becoming angered by his display of weakness. He had not heard the other two approach, but it satisfied him to see Thindor blanch at the furious snarl he shot at him. "And why would I do that?" he sneered. "Fancy them yourself, do you?"

"That's an elf; can't you see his ear?"

Dal looked again at the body, and, sure enough, the one ear he could see was peaked. An elf. Of course. He should have guessed by the finery of the weapons and quiver: only the elves made such things. "And?"

"They're _cursed_."

Dal blinked with slow disdain at his subordinate. But something tilted in his memory towards Thindor's manner of thinking, a shadow from a life long ago that he did not often admit to having lived. The wench he had once called his mother had told him of the elves and their dangerous magic. She had warned him that elves carried curses like lepers carried disease. "You're a stupid cur, Thindor." But for his conviction, he did not touch the body again. He cared not what other riches the corpse might conceal: he had his prize, and, despite the threat of curses, he did not lay the knives down. Offering the dead elf a sneering bow of thanks, he turned back up river, resuming the hunt with a distinct lightness to his step.

21


	10. Chapter Ten: The River's Run

Okay, author's notes are actually required for this chapter ... for the notes, responses to my wonderful reviewers, and grovelling appologies for the lateness of this chapter, please see my profile page when I've had some sleep!

Otherwise, enjoy reading!

Ghost

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><p>Chapter Ten: The River's Run<p>

They made the land sicken like a terrible blight, covering ground and sullying it with their touch at an alarming and terrifying pace. So many of them swarmed into the trees that the forest shuddered as a memory it would never be rid of was pounded into it. It quailed from their advance, begging to be ignored as something less than significant as the masses of Uruk-hai heaved between its trunks. But as soon as the first one passed beneath the turning boughs, the clashing contrast of natural and abomination tainted the earth with a stain that could never be washed away. For the second time in recent days, the forest found itself invaded ... but the memory it held of the original intruders was far sweeter than the army that coursed between its trunks now. It knew their black intentions, and it almost remembered what pity was when the collective consciousness of the trees bent their thoughts to those who had entered not two days prior.

The Uruks had scented blood, and there would be no escape.

-(())-

Gimli's sleep was fitful, riddled with course dreams and more times of wakefulness than real rest. He felt no better for it. Images he never wished to see washed against his weariness with an abrasive persistence, hounding him out of sleep into less forgiving awareness. When the sorry squelch of mud and wet leaves announced Aragorn's heavy approach, Gimli was almost glad for it.

Aragorn's mild surprise at finding his stocky companion looking up at him from his bed of brittle leaves registered only briefly in his weighted eyes. "Did you sleep?"

"Some," Gimli supplied simply. He did not say that his time lying there had been consumed more by restless consciousness than sleep. He certainly would not divulge that he had been more privy to Aragorn's pain than the man knew. The ranger nodded unknowingly and bent before the still soundly sleeping hobbits. He hesitated, clearly loath to wake them when they evidently needed the sleep. While he was temporarily distracted, Gimli ran a critical eye over their companion: the ranger looked terrible, his own need for respite hanging under his eyes and paling his skin. But it was beyond Gimli's right to goad him into rest; Aragorn's waking world was damaged enough without Gimli forcing him to face his dreams...

Aragorn called softly to their hobbit companions. When neither of them stirred, he gently shook a shoulder each. "Meriadoc. Peregrin. Come on, friends, time to get up."

Merry was first to rouse properly. He sat up, stretching his bunched shoulders, his face contorting as he gave a wide yawn. "Hallo, Strider," he greeted groggily. "What time is it?"

"Only about mid morning, I'm afraid."

Merry sagged a little at the news, apparently disappointed he had not had more than a few hours. He cast his surroundings something of a bemused look, taking in his lack of companions with a light frown before the burning memory of the night before seared itself into his head. Cruel enlightenment smoothed his face and left him with a deadened expression of hopelessness. Any buffer Merry usually had in place against his temper was too badly frayed by their losses for him to tolerate Pippin's inaction, and he gave his cousin an ill-tempered bat on the arm.

"I'm awake," the other supplied quietly. "Though I don't see much point in it."

"'Not much point', Master Hobbit?"

Pippin fixed Gimli with a mournful look from the shielding folds of his cloak. "Frodo and Sam are gone. Boromir's gone. We lost Gandalf, and now Legolas is dead. And we never got to say goodbye to any of them. What are we without them? What's the point in us?"

Gimli had no reply to that. The dejection in the other's face was so intense he found it difficult to look at him, and the power of his frank observation was more than the dwarf wished to face.

But the leader amongst them did have an answer. He took Pippin's shoulder in a grasp that affirmed the conviction of his words, pinning the young hobbit with forceful silver eyes. "The point in us, Pippin, is that our friends are out there, and it is our duty to hold true to them. We will find the others, and we will not give in until there is no other path for us to tread." Aragorn smiled, but there was an odd trace of bitterness lacing the tilt of his lips as he added: "No matter what happens, the sun still rises." He got up then, turning his back on the others to riffle through his pack.

Aragorn proffered the other three a _lembas _wafer to share between them, taking nothing for himself and pacing with a dab of impatience waiting for them to be ready to leave. He had no desire for food, the need to press on driving any appetite from him, and as soon as they were finished, he had them on their feet and following the water's passage again.

This time, Aragorn took all due care to keep himself with the others, not allowing his long legs to out-stride them again. After all, he could offer them little protection under attack if they were a great distance behind him. But what that _did_ mean was he could not be alone with his thoughts, and his cheerless mood settled on the two hobbits and dwarf like a heavy dust. Feeling the pressing silence of their companion more clearly than they liked, Merry and Pippin fought valiantly against their own despondency and strove to lighten the mood with their own antics, the forced brightness in their banter managing to strangle the odd grunt of mirth from Gimli. But no matter how hard they tried with their humour, they could not salvage Aragorn from his heavy sadness of loss and seething rage at their betrayal. Finally ceding defeat, the pair fell into a sorry silence, their pace brisk to keep up with the ranger.

The morning ebbed into afternoon, the sun hiding its face in the clouds like a sulking child. A smattering of rain assaulted them again, nothing more than an echo of the previous night, but enough to plunge their moods even more as their wrapped their damp cloaks all the tighter around themselves. They walked in silence, only the ranger amongst them paying any real attention to their surroundings as he searched the furious waters below with an obsessive edge for what was lost. The sun began to edge through its downwards arch behind its cloud shield, casting a deeper grey about them. It intensified the shadows in the forest. Everything was so very quiet.

For reasons unknown to him, Merry felt deeply unnerved. He cast the dark trees a furtive look, feeling that they were hiding something from him, some nasty surprise they chose to conceal out of sheer malice. It didn't feel like the Nazgûl had, but there was definitely something there, and he found his steps slowing to a cautious pause that he might listen a little better. Were Legolas still alive, he supposed the elf would think Merry's senses deaf in comparison to his own, but the hobbit prided himself on his stronger awareness of his surroundings. No sounds of threats came to him, but there were no birds either, no rustlings of small animals in the undergrowth. He didn't sense the horrible smothering threat of Wraiths or smell the putrid stench of orcs, but the silence was wholly unnatural. He turned back to his fellows, and pitched his voice a little louder to their retreating backs.

"Strider-"

An arm hooked around his throat in a strangling embrace and lifted him, pinning him against a solid body. What little breath he had escaped in a sharp yelp. Merry kicked his elevated legs furiously, but everything he hit felt like rock to his heels.

Aragorn whirled at the shout, sword hilt in hand –

But he stopped and released the half-drawn weapon when he locked eyes with the man right in his path, blade already out and levelled at Aragorn's chest. A quick assessment told the ranger that they were of a height, but the blatant bulking power of the other made them viciously out-matched. The fight was over before it had begun. They both knew it, a knowing grin cracking the other's face like a split in the earth.

Merry's captor tightened his hold on his struggling captive, a breathy and cold chuckle in his ear engulfing his senses with the stink of bad teeth. A flailing foot found some softer part of the bull-like man and drew breathy curses in dry gasps from him. But Merry stilled at the bite of a dagger snagging the skin on the underside of his jaw, his panicked mind understanding what the blade point was telling him, even as clarifying threats were uttered in his ear.

"Merry! No, _no_! Let him go!"

Pippin surged away from the other two to help his friend, thinking nothing of the real threat to himself imposed by the one keeping Aragorn at bay. But Aragorn lunged and grabbed him back, a hand braced firmly against his chest and another gripping his shoulder. Pippin thrashed to throw him off, but the ranger's grip in the folds of his jacket was too strong for him to shake. "Let me _go_, Aragorn!" His desperate fingers clawed uselessly at Aragorn's clenched fist while his eyes lifted to plead with the grinning thug. "Please, _let him go_!"

"Now, why would he do that?"

A third man stepped into their line of vision, a crooked smile slanting a thin dark beard. His build was slighter than his two cohorts, more wiry and quick. The dark cleverness in his eyes glinted as they fixed with Aragorn's, recognising him immediately as the leading authority, the one to target to weaken the group. He smirked as he observed the anger that burned in the grey depths, relishing their powerlessness. "Odd company you keep," he said dryly to the other man. "Travelling with a _dwarf_. And with Shire rats in tow as well." He sauntered over to the restrained Merry with leisure, surveying him like a horse at market. A gloved hand ruffled the curly gold locks roughly, caring nothing for the discomfort of the prisoner and enjoying the feel of barely restrained hate burning the back of his neck. "But perhaps you are confused, and think these are your children."

The poor wit enticed a run of laughter from his men.

"We have nothing of value for you here," Aragorn warned levelly. "Move on, and let us be on our way."

The apparent leader shrugged his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Oh, I don't think so."

There was no feasible move Aragorn could make quick enough ... the sword at his chest he could probably deal with, but the dagger at Merry's throat was a threat he was not willing to test. He could feel Gimli seething beside him, the stocky warrior itching to draw his axe. They needed a distraction...

"You're bandits, aren't you?"

Another shudder of laughter. Aragorn squeezed Pippin's shoulder in an attempt at reassurance, a gentle reminder of _I'm right here. Don't worry, I'll let nothing happen to him_. But there was no offered comfort Pippin could possibly take, not when his dear friend was under such treat. When Pippin was nervous or frightened, the ranger had learned, he talked: sometimes foolish utterings, statements of the obvious, glaringly blatant questions. Right now, his terror couldn't be clearer.

"You hear that, Dal?" the one holding Merry called mockingly. "Would you say we're bandits?"

"You could, Thindor ... Bandits, thieves, muggers ... slave runners. Call us what you will."

_Slave runners. _The hair at the nape of Aragorn's neck bristled at the words. He had heard much of such men patrolling the Wilds, and had seen more than enough of their 'goods' on his travels south. The burning image of Merry and Pippin bound in chains and crammed in stalls of misery like cattle for slaughter, waiting to be sold, turned his gut to ice. Sure enough:

"There is a market for freaks like these two in the barbarian lands. They'll make a pretty fort- "

"You won't touch them." The caution burned low in Aragorn's throat, deep like a wolf's warning growl.

Dal's lip curled with contempt at the interruption, his eyes losing all traces of twisted humour: no-one told him what he would and would not do, _no-one_. "Move, Lakil!" When the one guarding Aragorn cast a confused look in his direction, too slow in his reactions, Dal threw his foot into the side of his leg, literally kicking him out of his way so that he could level with the ranger who dared to not fear him. The one named Lakil gave his leader a murderous look behind his back, an old and festering resentment boiling for any to see who cared to look.

_They hate him_, Aragorn noted with sudden interest. If things could be twisted in their favour, there could be a way out of this mess yet ... but it all depended on which was more important to them: promised riches from enslaving the hobbits, or being rid of a leader they despised. Dal was only one man, he had to have something the others needed ... valuable connections in the slave trade, perhaps?

"You'll hand that one over, or I'll have him slit the other one's throat." The grin twisted back into existence as Dal drew a blade from the back of his belt and pointed it straight at Aragorn's face, the gold inlay on the flawless steel throwing the failing light in a flash of brilliance. "Understand?"

The ranger always expected his new enemy to draw a blade on him. Such things were somewhat customary in situations like this. But having a knife levelled at him did not normally make his heart jolt in his chest, or make him feel like he had just been thrown into a vat of freezing water. Only his eyes could move as they took in every familiar detail; the clean sharpness of the edges, the aged creaming of the bone hilt visible under the dirty hand, the colourlessness of flawless steel planes contrasting starkly with the inlaid filigreed gold...

Dal took the sudden drain of colour from his proposed victim's face as fear and couldn't restrain the grin at the wondrous power the knife gave him. And just to think, he had drawn only one –

A screech of agony tore through the quiet. Dal and Lakil spun as one, to see Thindor clutching at his face with both hands in shock and agony. Dropped like a poisonous snake and forgotten, the cause of his pain stumbled to his feet, elvish dagger flashing red in his clenched fist as he fled -

It was all Aragorn and Gimli needed.

Dal barely had time to position the knife in a block at the speed of Aragorn's strike. The heavy hit from the larger weapon jarred his wrist and nearly sent the knife flying, but he held on and hastened back just out of range. And that was it: the two men found themselves in a combat circle, blind to all else but each other. Dal flashed his teeth in a grin close to manic, drawing the other blade and holding the pair before him, looking through them at the ranger like they made mockery of something so cumbersome as a sword.

Aragorn levelled himself. That one clash taught him much of his adversary ... that he was a savage attacker of the weak and ill-prepared; that he was not a skilled warrior by any stretch of the imagination, dropping his guard so readily at a squawk of distraction ... but there was dangerous art in those hands. They held those beautifully crafted weapons with too much relish. Even the way he _looked_ at Aragorn spoke greatly of what type of man he was. It was starkly clear that Dal was a killer many times over, and he was more than keen to see Aragorn's lifeblood spill into the mud.

They circled, two wolves assessing each other for weakness, footfalls careful and light, waiting for that moment when the still was breached and the opportunity for the fatal strike came.

Waiting...

There would be no middle ground, no draw -

_Ready._

Dal jumped the gulf, knives angled to take neck and torso in one effort. Aragorn countered, pitching his body right and out of the way of the knife destined for his neck, deflecting the other blade with a sweeping flow of his sword and bringing it round in a returning swipe. Dal twisted himself, parrying inside the longer weapon's range. But he misjudged, getting too close to his adversary. The space he had given himself was too restrictive, the knives too long to use together. His left hand raised and stabbed down in a hacking motion at Aragorn's flank –

The sword came across and up just in time: the white knife glanced from the longer blade with a screech of agonised metal. Aragorn hissed when the keen edge bit into his hand, but he didn't stop and went with the momentum, ramming his pommel into his rival's chin with an almighty _thwack_. Dal's teeth came together with a loud clack and his head jerked right back on his neck, flinging him backwards with such violence it threw the two combatants apart. An angered Dal righted himself and wiped the back of his cuff across his chin. It didn't surprise him that the material came away bloody, the force of the blow had been that great. He spat contemptuously at his feet, privately prodding his smarting teeth with his tongue. But his sneer twisted when he noticed the deep cut on his rival's right hand freely running crimson.

"Does that hurt?" he asked, his teeth flashing red in the ghoulish smile he threw at the other man. The knives twisted in something crudely reminiscent of their real owner's more practiced and graceful flourish. "I think I like these."

"You've no right to_ touch_ them!" Aragorn spat, aggression and upset searing his blood.

A faint glimmer of surprised realisation passed over Dal's features. But the surprise melted away into pure joy, a sickening glee at this most wonderful flaw lighting his eyes like fire. "You _knew_ the elf? Well, well. This day just keeps getting _better._"

His words did not provoke retaliation with either blade or tongue ... but there was that betraying clench of the bearded jaw, an indication both slight and glaring. He had found a point to twist the dagger, an exploitable weakness, and he had every intention of pushing it in to the hilt.

Careful steps again, prowling. Aragorn mirrored the action, sword primed, keeping his foe in full sight.

"Was the elf filth a close friend?" Dal asked quietly. At the returned silence, the sneer deepened triumphantly. "So much blood ... how very _sad -_" his tone suggested he found Legolas' fate more delightful than lamentable. "Does it burn you to see me with these?" Dal flicked his wrists, displaying the white knives like a pair of valuable hostages. "Mind you, it isn't as though he needed them anymore," he goaded. "Carrion can't defend itself from scavengers, can it?"

The taunt went too far. An incensed cry erupted from Aragorn's throat as the two men came together again. All the grief, the pain and the anger, the hurt of betrayal and burning shame of his failures came together in a blinding fury of rage so incredible he was near impervious to any threat Dal could present.

There was a new and entirely more dangerous edge to the fight now that the ranger threw himself so completely into it. A degree of recklessness marred his fighter's grace with jarring ferocity, and Dal mirrored it with purest ecstasy. Anger was such a dangerous emotion, and Dal had managed to make his enemy succumb to its poison. Now it was a matter of waiting for him, playing against the barrage of assaults until the ranger did something stupid. _Thrust, counter, parry, parry again –_

Sword and knives assaulted each other for what seemed like an endless struggle for dominance, greed and arrogance pitched against angered desperation. To Aragorn, it seemed a bitter and twisted way for things to fall: fighting – not only for his life, but those of his three companions - against knives he had never looked upon as posing a threat to him in his life. Now that they were pitted against him, now that he had felt their keen bloodlust in the intense pain of his hand, he felt a deeper and altogether different hurt resounding in his chest at their betrayal. A silly sentiment, but it was there all the same. It put all the more fire under his skin that this filth before him had taken even _that_ away.

But through the distorting haze of his wrath, Aragorn felt his body threaten to betray him. The weight of his sword against an opponent with such light weapons was beginning to count against him. The mud sucking greedily at his feet made him less agile, and Dal seemed to be quicker, skirting over the slick surface with the damnable strength of someone who knew they had an advantage. He deflected a near-hit to his chest, countered, parried. Nearly every meeting of weapons on his half was in defence rather than attack. Definitely tiring, the steel becoming heavier to him, making him lag -

_STRIKE_

The feel of a blade passing through cloth and flesh is the same, no matter what the weapon, and Dal knew the swift slash he had dealt to be a true hit. Triumph heated his blood as his enemy lurched back out of range, left hand shooting to the lengthy laceration across the right of his stomach. The sword tip sagged into the churned earth, almost seeming to linger like an ignored hound, unsure of its master's intentions as he bent over with pain...

Dal saw his moment of victory and rushed forward with a guttural roar, raising one blade with the intention of slashing the exposed neck –

The dagger's flash came too fast for him to react. The hand snaked out and punctured the descending wrist with astounding accuracy, _in_-_out_. Dal didn't scream, but he dropped the leading knife and reeled backwards with pain, horror drawing his eyes to the through-and-through wound. His vision filled with steel and the flat of the sword came smashing into his face, again, _again -_

The slick mud threw his slipping feet from under him and Dal landed flat on his back in the filth. Defeated, but not conquered: snarling defiantly through the blood streaming from nose and split lips, Dal raised the knife in his other hand and swiped for Aragorn's leg to hamstring him, but the action was clumsy with pain, and the ranger kicked the knife away, not caring that he caught fingers with his boot. Ever ready, the cold sword tip rested like a deathly kiss against Dal's jugular. It was over. Finally over. Aragorn used the sudden still to calm his breathing from jagged pulls into something more regular.

There was a viper at the end of his sword, and he dared lift neither blade nor eyes to check on his companions. "Is everyone alright?" Three confirmations, two strong, one hoarse. Aragorn scowled heavily down at his captive at Merry's husky response, but he took it as a victory that the hobbit was there to make any sound at all.

Defeat had ruined him in the eyes of his men, Dal knew that, but he swallowed his fear back and pushed his voice through his lips in an attempt at his previous authoritative aggression: "Lakil! Thindor!"

"Be silent!" the ranger snapped.

"Useless calling for _them_," said a voice from out of Dal's range of sight, gravelly as the earth and dripping with smug satisfaction. "A poor leader you must have been for them to leave you with such little hesitation!"

A flash of panic and rage at the abandonment passed over the bloodied face.

"Do you yield?" Aragorn breathed, chest heaving with sheer loathing aside his exhaustion.

Though the eyes of his conquered enemy wore a thin veil over their fear as they finally took Aragorn's anger for something decidedly more serious with the sword at his throat, Dal flung an altogether foolishly defiant "_No_" at the ranger.

"_I _would, if I were you," Gimli cautioned, his tone ringing clear with amusement as he collected the knives from the dirt, wiping what mud he could from their otherwise perfect planes: he was thoroughly enjoying seeing the man who had threatened the lives of the hobbits and defiled the memory of their gone friend squirming in the muck. Justice was being dealt, and Gimli didn't feel so much as a twinge of sympathy as he handed Aragorn the twin blades.

Something close to snapping in Aragorn was mildly soothed by the familiar weight in his hands. To say so much had changed, they felt no different. It was miraculous that they had come back at all... Only, he had no right to them. _I'll send them to Thranduil_. The thought burned with its implications, becoming an ominous cloud in Aragorn's mind. The last child, gone. History repeating its cruel game on Mirkwood's king as the white knives returned home again without their owner...

The vicious weight of cold metal lifted from Dal's throat, the ringing song of a sword being sheathed a welcome sound to his ears ... but before Dal had the chance to even consider escape, Aragorn's uninjured hand knotted in his shirt and hauled him to his feet. Aragorn bound his hands tight behind his back with a thin leather tie, caring little for his prisoner's discomfort. One of the deathly-elegant knives Dal had called his own for a short time gripped mercilessly at his pulse point like a savage dog waiting for the command to kill. Aragorn pressed the blade edge so firmly to his enemy's skin a crimson bead outlined the contours of his throat. "You will take us to where you thieved these, or I swear by Illuvatar's blood I shall spill yours," Aragorn breathed. "Do we understand each other?"

There was no way Dal could have known the identity of the man who was so prepared to slit his throat from ear to ear, but his heart quailed at the power in the cold grey eyes like a rabbit in a wolf's jaws. Still, in a final bout of foolish showmanship, he chose to flash a coward's last attempt at defiance. "Why?" he demanded. "What good is carrion to you?"

Aragorn's lips peeled back to reveal an almost animalistic snarl. The blade bit all the deeper and the man fought with his reflexes not to swallow, fearing the action would be enough to end his life.

"It is no concern of yours. Take us, or die by my hand now. Your choice."

"Fine!" Dal spat. "Just remove your damned knife from my throat!"

Leaning even closer and pitching his voice for Dal's ears only, Aragorn laid down his terms: "I will grant you your life in fair exchange. But should you touch a _hair_ on their heads -" he threw a glance in the direction of Merry and Pippin, "- I will enter you into the trade myself. Understood?" The ranger pushed his captive away from himself, open disgust burying any measure of kindness and compassion he would normally offer anyone in his custody. Rather than keep a knife to the wretch's neck, Aragorn nocked an arrow to his small hunting bow. The string remained slack, but the menacing contact of his primed fingers was enough. Should the streak of orc spit try anything, Aragorn would not think twice about putting an arrow in his worthless back.

"Is this wise?"

The ranger lifted his eyes to his dwarven friend. "Wise, Master Dwarf?"

Gimli scratched at his neck with his axe, a light frown playing across his heavy brow. He heaved a sigh of discontent. "Surely," he said with a measure of reluctance, "tracking the others-"

"I won't abandon him, Gimli," the ranger retorted forcefully, seeing where Gimli was taking his line of thought and not liking it one bit. "If you want to keep looking for a way across, I will not stop you. That's up to you, but I say now this is where we part." He stopped, trying to remove the rising anger from his voice. "But I just won't do it to him, Gimli. I can't."

Gimli understood well Aragorn's motives. It couldn't have been an easy choice for him to make, and it was admirable that he wished to give Legolas the final respect he well and truly deserved. It was an honourable choice.

But that didn't necessarily make it the right one.

"Hearken to me, Aragorn," Gimli demanded firmly. "The One knows I miss the damned squirrel too, but I'm imploring you to _think _on this: if we find a crossing place _now_, we have a chance of catching them." A little gentler, he said: "We need to chase after the living, not worry for the dead."

Surprise cleared Aragorn's face as though the dwarf had struck him. Somewhere deep within, he knew he had always hoped to find Legolas alive somewhere along the river bank, however implausible a likelihood such a miracle may be. Was it selfish of him, wanting so desperately to find him? The others he regarded as friends, truly, and he would do anything for them ... you could not traverse the perils of Caradhras together, or walk the darkness of Moria without forming a bond stronger than the _mithril_ mined there.

But it was to Legolas he turned in his darkest times, when he found his decisions as leader questioned and his will tested by hardship. A friendship of decades meant the elf knew Aragorn better than the ranger believed he knew himself. He never shied from pointing out necessary truths, no matter how cutting. Legolas would steer Aragorn to the better path if the _right_ one was not there to tread. Right now, he knew exactly what the elf would say...

But he knew just as well what Legolas' decision would be had fate swapped their positions.

Losing Legolas was like losing a brother. Abandoning Elladan or Elrohir in such a way was an act unspeakable, and abandoning Legolas, in his view, was equally as callous when he had a means of finding him within his grasp.

The Ring was likely beyond their powers of recovery, Frodo and Sam with it. Boromir would have diverted their course for Minas Tirith, of that there was no doubt. But so long as the river remained impossible to cross, there was little they could do besides search for a means to overcome the obstacle. It was an entirely hopeless situation.

"You think I make this choice freely?" he hissed, the anger he fought so hard to repress colouring his words with bitterness. "I am going, Gimli, whether it pleases you or no-"

"_Damn it_, Aragorn, you're letting your grief impede your judgement! Think _clearly_, curse you!"

Fury, boundless and pure and unrestrained set a cold fire in Aragorn's eyes. The sheer power of the glare of burning silver was almost enough to cow Gimli into submission. Almost. Dwarves were not so easily conquered, and he asserted his ground, hands crossed resolutely over the head of his axe, feet braced and boldly returning the furious gaze.

For Merry and Pippin, seeing their two defenders clash on such a personal level beckoned the ruin of the last remnants of the Fellowship. Such a possible eventuality filled their guts with ice. Merry for one would not allow that to happen. The harsh sound of his crushed throat being carefully cleared cut across Aragorn's retort, snaring their attention from each other. Both man and dwarf stared as if they had entirely forgotten the hobbits existed. "If it means anything," Merry croaked painfully, "I think we should look -" he stopped, swallowing uncomfortably and holding his throat. "I think we should go to Legolas."

Silence.

He took it as a small victory that they paid such attention to his words, even if their faces suggested they were too stunned to do anything else. "If you think about it," he continued, fighting with his hurt throat to force the words out, "we lost him last night." He waved a hand vaguely at Aragorn's captive. "This ... fellow -"

"Dal," the 'fellow' spat.

"_Dal. _Him. He must've found Legolas after the storm, which means this morning. It's – what? About three in the afternoon? I think we've trav-" another pained swallow "-travelled a few leagues through the day, like him. Surely, that means Legolas isn't all that far away."

So logical. Of course. The events crammed into the past twenty hours were enough to span a thousand lifetimes, but it hadn't occurred to them that, actually, everything had happened really very quickly. Merry's reasoning was sound: Dal and his filthy ilk really couldn't have come that far within the confines of the day.

"Is he right?" Aragorn asked, throwing the question in Dal's direction.

No response.

"_Speak_! Is he right?"

Dal flinched and flung Aragorn a hateful glare. "Less than a league."

"Well, that just about settles it, then," said Merry, his tone as light and airy as he could make it, sounding for all the world as though they had all agreed on what type of cake to have with their tea. In a more level manner, his light brown eyes meeting Aragorn's squarely: "You're right, Strider: we can't just leave him."

A touch of colour painted the hobbit's cheeks at the proud smile Aragorn bestowed on him. "Thank you, my friend." _I'm grateful_. "But first, I will tend to that throat of yours..."

Minutes later, Merry, perched on his cold rock seat, could not hide his curiosity as Aragorn rummaged in the depths of his pack. It was only a small bag, but the number of pots it concealed was truly amazing to the hobbit, and he couldn't help wondering what they all did. A cacophony of scents assailed his nose, sweet and softer smells barely permeating through much harsher, sharper ones. To Merry's disappointment, when Aragorn eventually found the little clay pot he was looking for, the scent upon opening it was not nice in any way, shape, or form.

"What is it?" the hobbit asked with a measure each of dread and apprehension.

"Arnica root, amongst other things."

"But it stinks," the hobbit protested. "Arnica doesn't stink."

"Arnica doesn't, but the other things do." Aragorn left his cryptic explanation at that and scooped a liberal amount of stiff greenish paste into the palm of his hand, kneading it with his knuckles until it became looser. Only when he seemed content with the consistency did he bid Merry pull down the stuff of his shirt to allow full access to his throat. The ranger hissed angrily at the violent discolouring of the skin there. Whatever injury Merry's dagger had dealt to the man's face was a light punishment compared to what Aragorn would have done had he got his hands on him. He ensured his touch was no firmer than necessary when he applied his salve, smoothing it thickly onto the skin and binding an oiled cloth over it to prevent it rubbing off.

The ranger sat back on his haunches to survey his patient, wincing at the sudden shout of protest from his sliced stomach. "Better?"

The real possibility of pain made Merry somewhat reluctant to indulge the healer's request, but Aragorn's level and expectant stare told him that he would not be left alone without an answer. Merry frowned with worried apprehension and swallowed experimentally. Aragorn laughed when his face smoothed with shock. "_Better_? It's fine!" A hand flew to touch his throat, only to be intercepted by Aragorn's own with an accompanying warning shake of the head. "What's in that stuff?"

Aragorn chuckled, patting his young friend affectionately on the shoulder. "What is in it is of no importance: it works, that's all you need concern yourself with."

_That's Strider-speak for you're better off not knowing_, Merry concluded as his tall companion rose stiffly to his feet, throwing the hobbit a quick flick of his chin to indicate that he wished for him to do the same. "But what about you?" Merry queried, running a little to catch up. "He got you, didn't he? And your hand?"

Even as they walked, Aragorn wound a length of cloth about his injured hand. The tackiness coating it irritated him, but there was no time to do anything about it. The slash was deep, the cut clean and long. He marvelled at the sharpness of the knives with a warrior's appreciation. His awareness of being sliced had been something distant, like it could have been someone else suffering the injury. It was only with that first pulse of blood that his flesh seemed to register the wound and flare in panicked agony. Legolas might have been a prince, but he cared for his weaponry like an assassin.

His stomach was a little different. It stung in the same manner that shallow cuts from sharp blades do, and doubtless there would be a scar there in time, but he regarded it as a small price to pay. He had been tiring, and he needed to end the fight as the victor. The feint had hurt, and it was a dangerous manoeuvre, but it worked. "I am fine, Merry. They will wait."

"What about me?"

Aragorn cast Dal a neutral look. No matter how deeply he despised the man, if his life were under threat from the wound he had dealt him, he would have treated it sufficiently. Aragorn regarded his duty of care as a healer very seriously. As it was, the wound bled, but not in any way that was life threatening. "You're fine."

"_Fine_? I could die!"

"You say that like you think the world would miss you," Gimli scoffed, only to receive a filthy look from the man he held sentry over with Aragorn's bow.

Without another word, Aragorn reclaimed his bow. The arrowhead aimed with unwavering threat into the centre of Dal's back. All sense of good humour was lost in Aragorn's countenance, grey eyes darkening when they fixed with Dal's green ones, as though he saw some sordid stain marring his path. "Lead us on." The arrow jerked in an echo of the order. Dal sneered again, but the expression was the empty retaliation of a trapped dog as he complied all the same, walking back the way he had originally come to lead the strangest company he had ever encountered. Thindor was right: elves were cursed. He had a strong feeling his one would continue to rebound on him until he died.

Dal lead them for what felt like forever to Aragorn. The descent of the sun coloured the light a deeper shade of grey. Worry edged into his mind that they would not get there before nightfall. His senses tried their best to fight with the blinding onset of darkness, but he was no elf, and the failing light set his guard all the higher. There was no doubt in his mind that his earlier distracted mood had allowed them to be set upon. If only he had he been more aware of his surroundings, the threat would have been detected long before. Guilt tugged at him every time his eyes fell on Merry. The hobbit's heart was far stronger than the impression that yellow smoking jacket gave. Aragorn couldn't help the feeling of pride welling in him at Merry's self-defensive action ... but if he hadn't been able to reach his dagger? What if Aragorn had fallen, what then?

_If, if, if..._

He wasn't helping himself. _Look forward, not back, _he counselled inwardly. _Concentrate on where your feet are going._

The terrain changed, passing from earth to stone and forcing the encroaching boundaries of the forest back, leaving them uncomfortably open. Boulders stood like sculpted sentries in their path, the diminishing light throwing stark shadows across their pitted and angular faces. A low rumble reached out to them like the warning grumble of a watch dog. _A waterfall_, Aragorn marked. The water was nowhere near as powerful as the night before now that it had had a full day without significant rain, but even now, it was no peaceful eddying brook. White peaks erupted from the silt-laden waters, crashing themselves against unmoving rocks with a fury to which the hunks of stone refused to bow.

The course marked by the steep hard-rock sides channelled the river with more control than the fierce flow liked, funnelling it through the cleft that was little more than ten feet wide. The water battled against it, plunging and breaking like a herd of ill-tempered wild horses through the narrower run. Aragorn paled at the thought of his friend being thrown into a course of water so aggressive, and no matter how much he tried to bar the image from his mind, it nestled there and refused to give him peace.

The land lulled a little to give them a better view into the valley, and Aragorn soon saw that it was not one waterfall, but a collection of many, descending in broadening, shallow steps into the valley below, widening from the funnel-like mouth they had just drawn level with. During gentler times, he imagined it would be a place of astounding beauty. A cluster of surreally carved rocks crowned the brink of the landfall and stood towering and imposing, guarding the entrance to the falls with blank and unfriendly faces slick with spray. The lowest side was little more than twice Aragorn's height. It was odd, but he almost felt that they judged him...

Dal stopped. He looked casually over his shoulder, an odd smirk angling his lips as his mud-green eyes fixed with Aragorn's. "If you want me to show you how to reach the elf, I need my hands back."

Aragorn's heart wedged itself painfully into the tight confines of his throat, yammering for release. This was it. That sickening light of triumph in Dal's eyes said so.

"You mean you've lead us to a way across the water?" Incredulous, Gimli's eyes glowed with anger. "You knew we needed to cross! Why didn't you mention this before?"

"You didn't ask." The wretch smirked in the face of Gimli's wrath, throwing the insult back at him tenfold with enjoyment too obvious for the dwarf to stomach. The fluid and unforgiving stream of dwarvish curses that coloured the air just about masked the sound of his near-boiling blood rushing through his veins. "_Damn you and all your spawn_!" he spat, every drop of sincerity he held shoving each word from his lips.

Turning to Aragorn, Gimli said: "We should never have trusted him this far. He's leading us on a merry dance like a fox with a gaggle of geese!"

"Oh no," Dal interjected, a lazy pleasure in his tone. "The elf _is_ here: just down there." A flick of the head in the direction of the valley bottom had the remaining eyes of the Fellowship collectively trying to stare through the rock barrier as though they might see that which they sought. Not only would they find Legolas, they would be right where they needed to be, on the much-coveted other bank. But there would be a climb involved: slick rock over a dangerous run of river with a man Aragorn knew wanted them all dead did not sit well with him. He reaffirmed his grip on his bow, fingers becoming that little bit tighter, seeking assurance from the lengths of wood. There was no way he could climb and keep the bow in his hands, and just looking at the rock told Aragorn that there no conceivable way anyone could climb without their hands. But one false move, one _push_, and all would be over for the one to take the fall.

That was a risk he couldn't allow the others to take. With a measure of reluctance, Aragorn put the bow and arrow away and cut the blood-soaked leather tie. Dal brought his hands to his front with a groan of discomfort, flexing from his shoulders down. That loathsome mouth contorted again in a grin. It was an expression he had seen that much on the degenerate it barely mattered to him anymore ... until that point. There was something else behind that twist of the lips that set Aragorn's hair on end.

"I will go first with Dal," he informed the others as he adjusted the bandaging over his cut hand. "Come only at my call."

"But Aragorn, lad -"

"_Only_ at my call, Gimli. Not a second before." Dal was too much of a snake to entrust with the lives of the others, and Aragorn was the only one who physically matched him: should Dal try anything, Aragorn would have the better chance of defending himself. _I'm not prepared to lose any of you, too._

Without so much as a warning, Dal turned to the most pitted jut of rock and began to climb. Dismissing the touch of apprehension on his heart, Aragorn began to follow. He tried not to think on how very slippery the surface was, anchoring his fingernails as firmly as possible into the deeper little fissures and praying their grip was enough as they gained height. Dal had clearly done this before, scrambling up the face and finding all the best holds in less time than it took the ranger to think on his next move. The cold bit too keenly into Aragorn's fingers, numbing them to the better grips the unforgiving rock allowed. A glance up, and Dal was gone. Panic gripped his stomach at the lack of his traitorous guide and Aragorn redoubled his efforts, ignoring the pain as the rock cut into this desperate fingers. Finally reaching the top, he hauled himself over the narrow crest, and discovered the small mercy of a flat shelf broad enough to take his feet.

The other side amazed him.

The rock was far more forgiving on this side formation-wise, angling down in a series smooth carved steps of varying size to join with a narrow curved ledge, an elongated tongue of stone branching almost all the way across the water, leaving a gap little more than three feet to jump. Algae and lichen dappled the grey surface, giving a deceptive glistening beauty to the soaked stone. One false step on it, and he would be gone. Spray misted his face, the fresh and clean smell of wild water and wet stone washing over him pleasantly. The source of the spray was not nearly so appealing. The river raged through the funnel, falling over itself to escape the tight confines.

But he couldn't see Dal.

Aragorn tensed. The hulking grey shoulders of rock revealed nothing to him, no sound reached out to him over the ceaseless roar of the water –

Blinding white light erupted from the top of his left shoulder blade. The pain was so incredible his ensuing fall down the natural steps was more dream than reality. But reality could not be harsher when his forehead glanced off rock, or when he landed hard on his back and smacked his head. It struck with such force the vision of Dal leaping down from the rock above, the large stone braced in both hands to cave Aragorn's skull, doubled and swam out of focus. And there was nothing he could do save watch the rock swing powerfully upwards...

Except, Dal never factored the loyalty Aragorn commanded with his companions into his murderous plans. Nor did he consider the hobbits any form of threat to him ... but he was too stunned to realise his error as two accurately aimed pebbles dashed into his temple, flung by hands well-trained by misspent hours of mischief in idle childhood. Throwing rocks at squirrels proved at that point to be more useful than either of them ever deemed possible. The twin strikes threw his balance and made him fling the rock sideways rather than down on his victim's head. He fell awkwardly, missing Aragorn, only just catching the ledge with a foot...

But it wasn't enough. Dal screamed when his ankles betrayed him, throwing his centre of balance over the edge. He flung his hands out at the ledge, but the slippery rock dismissed him, callously offering his desperate fingers no purchase and shouldering him down into the foaming white horses.

Aragorn couldn't quite understand what had just happened, and he understood even less when Gimli's face swam into view, far too close to say he was supposed to be on the other side of the rock.

"You alright?"

He made to sit up, but the swing of nausea and bright pain in his head made the earth spin maddeningly. A strong gloved hand took his arm, stilling his efforts with a firm and commanding grip he was unable to counter. "Easy, Aragorn, lad. Slowly." Gimli levelled with Aragorn's face, scrutinising his eyes with a thick frown. "How many of me do you see?"

Aragorn blinked at his stocky companion, wincing as he brought himself into a sitting position a little slower. Bright spots of his own blood blossomed on the wet stone like little roses, budding from the split in his brow. "One more than I should. I thought I told you to stay back?"

Bushy red brows left each other's frowning embrace to advance on the edge of Gimli's helm. "If I listened to you, your brains would be fish food right now."

On any other occasion, he would have berated such disregard for orders, but, right then, the resounding headache shouting inside his skull drowned any desire to reprimand, and the massive debt of thanks now owed to all three of them for his life would not allow him to be so ungrateful. He uttered as much to them as the hobbits finally joined them, commending them in particular on their prowess with a pebble. Such flattery being bestowed on their childhood naughtiness etched matching grins to their faces.

Only when Aragorn could stand without vertigo threatening to make him share Dal's fate did they take the risk of jumping the three feet to the opposite side. Typical of a healer, Aragorn made a terrible patient, pushing Gimli's fraying tolerance with his own pressing impatience, the failing light nagging at his sense of urgency. When he declared himself fit to continue by standing without support of either rock or hobbit, Gimli had to cede defeat, although he remained sceptical, eyeing the ranger like a stall merchant watching a too-innocent looking child.

The good thing about making the leap was the opposite shelf of stone sloped away from them, meaning that if they - particularly Aragorn - slipped, they were more likely to fall with the slope rather than over the brink. Thankfully, the leap over proved largely uneventful; Pippin slipped on a particularly slick algae growth, but beyond that, there were no more dramas.

The falls were framed on either side by climbs of rock, great smooth steps several feet high and pocked with shimmering pools, as though a giant had scooped the live stone for his own amusement. Grasses flared high as plumes of pale fire in the deep cracks scarring the surface, splitting their way with in soft sprays. Though there was climbing to be done, the foot and handholds were adequate enough even for the hobbits to comfortably navigate, and it did not take them all that long to reach their destination...

Aragorn forced his eyes to search. He couldn't recall a time when he had ever needed to find something so badly, and wished so hard he did not have to. He didn't want to remember Legolas in whatever state his body was in, but he knew his mind would never be able to separate such a damaging image from the rest of his memories. Still, he sought him, because it was the least he could do, not for himself, but for Legolas...

They had reached a landing of sorts, massive plates of grey stone covered in boulders the river had cast aside with as much care as an ill-tempered child. Great hulks of trees littered the place, sad and lost from their formerly regal states as they lay stretched and bare to the wiles of the world. But even in the swiftly dimming light and with such debris scattered as it was, finding the body of an elf in an otherwise barren landscape should not have been all that difficult, yet the three of them were failing miserably at it. Aragorn halted near the edge of the gentling water, the breeze whipping straying tresses of hair about his face. He felt more than heard Gimli join him at his side. "He's not here, Gimli." Nothing prepared him for the intensity of the disappointment, the hit of dejection and failure sagging his resolve into something beaten. "I've lead you all on a fool's errand."

Gimli humphed sympathetically. "No, lad: _Dal_ lead us on a fool's errand."

The ranger shook his head to himself, unhappy to accept the gentle line of comfort, knowing well what his dwarven friend thought. "Whatever way you look at it, we're here because I wanted to be; I was that intent on finding him, I just... what's that?"

Something captured his attention, something light and separate to the landscape coming to night. Barely able to contain his peaked interest, Aragorn made short work of the distance between himself and the source of his curiosity. The failing sun snagged on something trailing in the whispering breeze. He sat on his haunches at the cluster of rocks, piled haphazardly against a much larger and more permanently seated boulder. Fine strands of gold laced his trembling fingers, twisting into their embrace like something forgotten grateful at being discovered. There were several of them, snared by the cluster of rocks as a beacon to him. He knew them.

Aragorn ran a shaking hand through his hair, feeling the frustration reach a peak near unbearable. He had been here. Here was the evidence, tangled around his fingers, sad and lost in such a massive, massive place. But what really hit Aragorn hard was the dark pool at the boulder's foot, cradled in the shallow bowl like a precious commodity.

"Dal didn't lie."

"What?" Confusion, echoed by the hobbits as they joined Gimli, attentions distracted by Aragorn's change in behaviour.

"He was here..." Aragorn wrapped the strands in a piece of cloth fished from his pocket and carefully stowed it. He lifted his eyes as he straightened, scouring the vicinity for more evidence ... and could not quite believe what his refreshed view told him:

Printed in crude mockery of his tracker's sight, not two yards from his point of discovery, was the partial mark of a long-fingered hand, the stone having greedily accepted the offering of blood given to it. Aragorn placed his own hand on the dry stain, unable to contain the elation spilling from his eyes at his most wonderful discovery.

_I'm coming, my brother_. _I'm coming._

30


	11. Chapter Eleven: The Eldar Son

Okay, as some of you may have noticed, I don't normally put A/Ns in my chapters, but here, it's necessary. Please, please don't hate me for the lateness in this post. Trust me, if life would have allowed me to put it up earlier, I would have done! There will never be a point where I abandon this story. Never. It's taken too much of my time for me to do that! Plus it's my brain-baby, and I couldn't abandon my baby...

Thank you to all of you who reviewed before and (hopefully) continue to do so. Your reviews are my payment; please don't make me poor!

I hope you enjoy this chapter. It's super-duper long (unintentional, but impossible to break up. Sorry about that), and entirely centred on one character. I won't say who, because you will all learn soon enough.

If you enjoy it (and I hope you do), I have done my job. If you hate it, terribly sorry. Either way, TELL ME!

Ghost

-((-))-

Chapter Eleven: The Elder Brother and the Eldar Son – Part Two

The Eldar Son

_Dead weight piled on him, swiping his feet from under him, crushing his body in a cruel embrace and making him insignificant beside its own power, a feather caught on the tide. Terror made his fingers constrict so tightly about the bow his nails bit into his palms, desperate to not die completely alone-_

Feathers do not need bows_. The wood was torn from his weakened grip and lost to him. The blackness laughed when he finally screamed his fear, mocking his pain and forcing its cold hand into his mouth. Now-empty fingers ripped themselves trying to find some kind of hold, but the solid surfaces they glanced over showed no pity; he would belong to the river soon. It was no business of the land to show compassion._

_There was nothing he could do, slipping with frightening speed, no control, no help, no hope, no –_

_He hit the river. Freezing knives pierced every inch of him and motion changed with such violence it felt as though his body was nearly ripped in two. He tried to fight it, to gain some form of control as he was flung without compassion through the void, but all his struggles were futile efforts. No air,_

_NO AIR!_

_So much pain, the ice claws of ravenous water tearing at the sword wound in his side, loving the blood and carrying it away from him in lost plumes. No up, no down. Careening down the water coarse just the same as everything else swept away. _Alive? So?

_Either a jolt of guilt, or a glimmer of poor humour made the water throw him up, lifting his head enough for air to reach a panicked hand of aid to him. He choked on its loving kindness, even as the silt-laden water rammed itself down his throat and tried to force the snatched breath out._

Enough!

_Under again. _Taking liberties! _His back slammed into something, hard, the vicious strike bursting the stolen air from his stressed lungs. So unforgiving. The lack of mercy held by the river for its plaything was all too clear as his body hurtled through it, the ill-tempered water trying to break his body against any obstacle it could find to fling him against. How desperately he wanted it all to be over, for the world to become right and solid again, for the pain to stop. If he could just let go, if his head would only strike something that little bit too hard..._

_If only._

_His constricted chest burned with the need to live, the bitter agony of the body's feral instinct to fight death tooth and nail running him through unbearable torment. That same piece of his nature would not allow his jaw to open his mouth and inhale water as his mind commanded, seemingly ashamed that he could consider such a thing. Life was for preserving, and his body refused to let him forget that fact. No matter how much it hurt._

-(())-

ERYN GALEN, JANUARY OF THE YEAR 3434 OF THE SECOND AGE

He asked her to push herself, to excel beyond all boundaries previously set by her own achievements and those of her ancestors before her. And she did exactly as he requested, driving herself with terrific speed through the ever deepening snow. He did not need to tell her how to navigate the trunks, her quick hooves negotiating the obstructing structures with ease. Powerful muscles bunched, clearing the sorry mass of a long-fallen tree with the brilliant confidence and agility her breeding gave her...

Only, it wasn't quite enough.

Legolas caught an occasional glimpse of his brother's stallion. But that's all he was able to attain: the snatched views of the copper tail streaming high in spirit. Baerahir's heckling laughter mocked his efforts to catch him, relishing not only the competition, but the fact that he had already outright won before they even mounted. Celos was a horse so fleet of foot he was unmatched in the entire of their grandfather's stables. Legolas' smaller mare, Celu, was Celos' little sister by their mother. She was a fast horse in her own right, but no match for Celos.

For the brothers riding them, the differences between their horses mattered little to their competition: they still raced each other whenever the opportunity presented itself for them to slip away from court ... an occurrence that was becoming increasingly rare.

Celu broke through the wall of the clearing, tossing her head at the sudden change of dense trees to open space. Snow plumed at her abrupt stop at her rider's command, pitting the otherwise perfect surface with gleaming white projectiles.

"You took your time."

At Legolas' left, Baerahir was leaning casually against Celos' shoulder, taller against his horse with the animal's legs half disappeared in white while his master stood with barely an imprint on the surface. A long hand idly toyed with the stallion's ear. Celos was clearly enjoying the attention, his head lowering and eyelids drooping in his relaxed state, looking every bit a horse that had never run in his life.

Legolas' brow peaked at his brother's jibe. "That's because we were defending your back from the three trolls tailing you," he told him haughtily. "You should really learn to be more careful."

"Really? That's interesting, considering trolls cannot travel in daylight."

"Try telling _them_ that," Legolas returned, never one to cede defeat. "Besides," he added, casting the pregnant sky an analytical glance, "it could well be night, the clouds make it so dark." The younger of the two brothers swung himself with a graceful lack of effort from his horse's back and offered her a light pat of thanks. "Really, Baerahir, you should learn to watch your own back; I won't always be there to do it for you."

Baerahir snorted, admiring his brother's gall. But he wondered what he really would do without his younger brother. It was odd ... Legolas was no older now than a very mature _adan_, and Baerahir's own years passed well beyond a millennium. He was a mere crystal in an ice field, a breath in a lifetime, yet Baerahir could not envision life without him. He was at once an irritant, a burden, and a treasure. For an elf newly of age, he carried himself with the reputed pride of their family, knowing there was much he had to live up to and straining to do so. The youngest of the House of Oropher shadowed his older sibling with more tenacity than a begging hound. Baerahir loved him dearly, and he wished with all his heart that his shadow would always be there.

Except, Baerahir knew they could not remain in this world they had set up, where Legolas could call on his brother in his times of need, or indeed where he himself could find distraction in the forbidden teachings of weapon skills. Legolas knew of the threat, of course he did ... but with a child's naivety, he strove to ignore it, as though such an action could push it away until it left his family and his people alone. But the spreading disease had caught up with them now with the coming of Gil-galad's eagle, and Baerahir had elected to leave the gathering of his warriors to his second so they might come to their clearing. _One last time…_

His musings neglected to notice the practice staves being drawn. The short weapons clacked in challenge, distracting the peace with the promise of something more interesting. Baerahir sighed and shook his head at his little brother as he stood before him with the lengths of wood primed, feet carefully spaced atop the snow. "Legolas, you know Haru does not approve of you sparring."

"That I do," replied the other. "But it's a little late for repentance, isn't it? Besides," he continued, his voice tinged with a sly tone his brother did not trust. "I know how much you _love_ to."

"I hardly think that's fair."

"Whoever said anything about fair? Exploit your foe's weaknesses," Legolas said with an impish grin, tapping the staves together enticingly. "_You _taught me that."

Baerahir chuckled despite his reservations, shaking his head to himself. He brought his dark blond hair back from his face into a leather strip and drew his twin knives with an artful flourish. "I should be more selective in what I teach you in future," he said, walking with mock resignation into Legolas' chosen combat ring, "seeing as you're none too picky about using your education against me."

Legolas flashed him a brilliant smile, adjusting his grip a little in a determined show of readiness. "Never allow yourself to be weakened by emotional blackmail: another lesson of yours."

His well-versed brother was perfectly right: he _had_ taught Legolas that. Their sessions in this clearing had become something of a frequent occurrence over recent years, Baerahir inadvertently becoming Legolas' _other _weapons trainer. His official tutoring under the weapons master, Sorlil, was a formality, teaching only the basics of sword combat to a student not destined to wield a weapon in a combat arena. Even though Legolas showed a frankly _stunning_ aptitude for the bow - astoundingly good for even one of their people – his place as the second son would ever be the council chambers.

While Legolas and Baerahir were in themselves very alike, their official lives could not be any more different. Baerahir served under their father in the tradition of their family: the only son of the king commanded the army, and his eldest son captained under him. Any other children were to be given over to the running of the lands. Legolas, a mere two years after his coming of age, was at a level now where he was expected to attend trade negotiations as a competent representative of their people's interests.

Legolas did not enjoy his designated work.

Of course he applied himself to his duties as he was bid, but there was a seed of reluctance, an unwillingness that was all too apparent to Baerahir. That much was confirmed to him when he witnessed the resignation those clever blue eyes tried to shield as Legolas greeted the men of Dale to their kingdom on one of the rare occasions when Baerahir was home. His exchange of pleasantries had been impeccable, his gentle smile warm and accepting, but his eyes betrayed him. _You are most welcome_, they had seemed to whisper, _but I want no part in your efforts here._

The brothers had been riding to this secluded spot for years, finding peace with each other away from the careful diplomacy of court life: here, they were free to do as they wished, and it was here that Baerahir's plan could take place without anyone knowing...

Suggesting the ride to his sibling following the departure of the Dale representatives after days of arduous negotiating locked in the council chambers, Legolas - as his brother expected him to be - was more than willing to go. Baerahir was particularly delighted in Legolas' shock when he handed him the aged practice staves he had managed to spirit away from the armoury. The younger elf had not quite believed what he was being given the opportunity to do: Oropher did not wish for his younger grandson to partake in a serious fighting education ... after all, his chosen path was the council, and councillors did not need to wield weapons any sharper than their tongues.

Legolas, of course, was well aware of this, and though he _wanted _to properly learn, their grandsire's word was enough to put him off secret lessons. But once Baerahir had got beyond Legolas' initial reluctance and convinced the younger elf to take up the staves, he found that he possessed a real ability, adopting a natural stance without prompt, clear blue eyes assessing distances and anticipating any hidden threats his partner might be harbouring.

As good as Legolas initially promised to be, to Baerahir, it was like seeing a bird with its wings clipped. He had to set about correcting Sorlil's theatrical teachings, growing frustrated when his brother could not block his advances well enough as he struggled to remember his education under the swift barrage of attacks. "You're fighting for your life, not prancing in a play," he had said as he tried to force Legolas to truly defend himself. "Trust your instincts, don't fret over remembering positions. Hesitate, and you're dead."

Teaching his brother to disregard his instruction required more time than Baerahir ever anticipated, but, once Legolas learned to let go and indeed trust to his instincts, he proved to be more than capable, moving with a cat-like swiftness that was fast becoming skill. His bird-like lightness and keen eye both leant themselves to a deadly prowess previously never witnessed. Trade negotiations, in Baerahir's opinion, were a waste of his abilities.

That had been three years ago.

And now, in the snap of winter's cold, he planned to teach him a lesson. _I've created some kind of daemon._ "You'll regret turning this against me, _hên_."

"Really? I doubt it!" Legolas scoffed archly ... but his eyes narrowed, the jibe having the desired effect: Legolas loathed anyone calling him a child, even in jest. If Legolas was anything, he was easily teased. It brought out the proud and impulsive side of his nature, the element of him that needed to prove itself, and that was the part of him that was best to fight; his guard was always at its lowest point when he was annoyed, making him more vulnerable and easier to teach.

Baerahir sprang.

Two elves fighting each other, even in practice, was something quite awesome to behold. Neither of them held anything back, attacking, parrying, and trying to throw each other off balance whenever possible. The speed and strength they employed against each other was truly remarkable, like a pair of fighting wildcats. Baerahir fought with real blades, and it was testament to his ability with them that he had not drawn blood on his brother once.

_Parry, attack, attack, dodge_.

Twelve hundred years of pure combat experience met with just three years of secretive tutoring, a mere leaf in a forest of trees ... yet the leaf won. Catching a stave on the inside of Baerahir's forearm and giving a quick jolt of the wrist, Legolas twisted his brother's arm with enough applied pressure to force the strong fingers to relinquish their weapon. Before Baerahir could bring his remaining knife round to defend himself, Legolas thrust the other stave inside his brother's attack and rested the smooth wood quite surely against Baerahir's neck. Both stood frozen as the landscape surrounding them, breathing the sharp air in equal surprise.

"You've been practicing," Baerahir finally managed, a grin on his face. His grey eyes flicked between the wood at his throat and Legolas' blue stare. Legolas' own shock at what he had achieved made him look for all the world as though he had just been gifted a troll for a pet. He shook his head at the statement, panting shallow puffs into the icy air. "No," he breathed, "just with you."

Baerahir's grin morphed into a true and proud smile as he disengaged himself. "Then really, Legolas, you are truly gifted." He offered his brother a respectful bow, and it amused him to see Legolas' cheeks colour in embarrassment. But that tinge of humbleness melted faster than ice in a furnace, as Legolas' face split with a grin so wide it threatened to crack the earth beneath them.

"I just beat you." His voice brimmed with sudden boyish pride, and he laughed, not caring that his brother threw him a disapproving glare at his inflating head, the sound sharp and clean in the snow-thick air. "I just _beat_ Baerahir Thranduilion!"

"Gloating is not befitting of a prince, Legolas."

Legolas nearly jumped out of his skin at the addition of the new voice, pinning the speaker - a fair rider mounted on a light-boned black horse - in his sights at the edge of their clearing. He looked quite comfortable, as though he had been there forever, a fine cloak and finer honey hair lining his shoulders and a small smile angling his mouth.

Baerahir's lips twitched into their own grin, crooked and knowing. He merely raised his voice in greeting, apparently completely unfazed by the sudden appearance. "Mae govannen, Daerahil."

"How long have you been here?" Legolas demanded, more than a little horrified to see their family friend in their secret place and witnessing their illegal activities. When his question enticed only a chime of laughter from the elf lord, Legolas snapped his attention back to his brother. "How long has he been here?"

"Long enough," Baerahir informed him, sheathing his blades and turning a stern eye on his brother. "A win against an opponent is a hollow victory if you get slaughtered afterwards: always be aware of your surroundings, Legolas." He gave his brother a consoling pat on the shoulder as his exuberance visibly wilted. With a somewhat wolfish grin, he added: "You should learn to watch your own back; I won't always be there to do it for you."

Perhaps there was something in the way he said it. Perhaps it was a mere trick of the light ... but Baerahir could have sworn he witnessed a pulse of fear wave through Legolas' clear dark eyes. Before he had time to question it, Legolas tore his focus away from Baerahir and fixed his attention to Daerahil, evidently taking care to keep his eyes from his brother's face.

"But how did you know we were here?"

Daerahil scoffed lightly. "Come now, Legolas, don't be so naive: everyone from the stable hands to the king knows this is where you both go when you disappear."

Baerahir fixed his younger brother - who was still reeling in disbelief - with a pitying and affectionate look, before giving Daerahil his full attention. "Am I right in thinking you are not here just to watch us spar?"

"You are indeed." Daerahil nudged his horse into the open. Legolas allowed himself a better look at their father's friend. The normally cheerful smile was lacking, replaced by a sombre line, his eyes missing their normal light of mirth. But it was the way he looked at _Baerahir_ that set Legolas' hair on end with deeper unease.

Noting the openly worried look on the younger elf's countenance, Daerahil offered him what he evidently hoped was a reassuring smile. But the fact that Daerahil _needed _to force it, that the expression did not sit comfortably on his face nor reach out to his eyes, made Legolas' heightened sense of foreboding prickle with fear.

"I need both of you to accompany me back home, as fast as we can ride."

Legolas had never ridden at such great speed with such a heavy feeling of trepidation. The threat of punishment he recalled from his childhood following his more mischievous endeavours failed to amount to the level of anxiety he felt at that point. Daerahil told them nothing of what was going on, swerving his words to never directly answer the younger prince's questions... But Legolas was plagued by the notion that he was the only one of their company in the dark, that Baerahir was already well aware of why they had been summoned so. His brother's demeanour was entirely too quiet and uncharacteristically grim, asking no questions of their father's friend and offering his brother no explanation as they galloped their horses in a tight formation through the trees, heedless of the whirling torrents of ever-thickening snowfall.

Their horses had barely come to a slowing walk in the courtyard when the stable hands rushed to meet with them, taking command of the animals and waiting patiently for their riders to dismount. Legolas was used to tending his horse following a ride, and found himself somewhat reluctant to leave Celu to the ministrations of another. Only when Daerahil gave an impatient hiss as he stood waiting in the furling snow did Legolas grudgingly leave his horse for the warmth of indoors and the jaws of whatever fate had laid out for them…

The brightly light corridors of their home and grandfather's seat of power had never seemed so oppressively tight to Legolas, nor had they ever made him feel so utterly powerless, as Daerahil's footfalls sounded against the walls in a rhythmic beat of condemning urgency, leading them with haste to the fine oak door of their grandfather's study. The elf lord entered without knocking, stepping lightly aside to allow the two princes admittance.

This was Oropher's version of their clearing. When the king disappeared, he was almost always to be found in his study … not that any would consider disturbing him there. It was a large room, more library than study, as it wasn't possible to determine of what the walls were actually made, there were that many tomes and scrolls cluttering the shelves, spanning from ceiling to carpeted floor and filling the room with the heavy scent of aging parchment and ancient oak. Oropher had two desks: one small table at the far end where he liked to do the majority of his paperwork, and a much larger table closer to the centre that normally housed a great map of Eryn Galen and surrounding lands, plotting the positions of outposts and sentries, as well as close allies and less friendly neighbours... For all its size and purpose, it was rare that any other than the King himself, or their father, Thranduil, occupied it.

But when the silent and obedient sentinel of heavy oak panels parted in greeting, the sight that met Legolas' eyes was like nothing he had ever seen. There were select few times when he had been allowed into this room during his lifetime, and almost always they had been occasions when he was in some form of trouble or other when their father was away. Now that he was of age, such occurrences were somewhat rarer, but the room still held that level of gravitas for him, pungent as the pipe smoke the men of Long Lake insisted on clouding about their heads.

Now, the air was practically tar thick with bristling power, as his eyes encountered not only their grandfather and father beside him, but elves of note from other lands, and even a very small cluster of men. Oropher himself did not acknowledge their sudden appearance, too engaged in discussions with the foreign elf next to him. Thranduil, however, raised his eyes to his sons from the proceeds of the central table, an admonishing tint of _where have you been? You should have been here hours ago _to their grey light.

Legolas mirrored Baerahir's response, dipping his golden head in acceptance and apology. He eyed the rest of the assembly when their father's attention was drawn back to the table. There were many he recognised from their own council chambers, but there were others he did not know, and some he had encountered only once in his life ... and whose sudden appearance set his blood to fearful fire. The last time he had seen Elrond of Imladris and Amdír, king of Lórinand, they had sat in council with Eryn Galen's high powers in deep and serious talk of marching to war in the east. To Legolas, they were not allies in a time of great strife, but heralds of death. Their appearance and the size of the gathering could mean only one thing.

All four of them crowded the table, discussing points on an altogether different map to the one that normally occupied the space, where Elrond placed different coloured pebbles, talking with too much animation for Legolas' liking of army positions and command postings...

"...Gil-galad plans to amass your key forces here-" a small red stone was set down on its own, terribly alone in the vast sea of parchment "-in support of Elendil's northern flank. If your archers-"

"I have told him before, Elrond, and I've told you: I will _not_ cede command of my people to Gil-galad." Oropher's tone carried a pitch of warning, the slight edge to his voice recognisable to those who knew him as something to be heeded. "They go under my authority, or not at all."

Elrond blinked. Some thought of argument clearly passed over his brown eyes, but he evidently thought better of voicing it; he knew Oropher well, and that knowledge armed him with the wisdom to not challenge his convictions. The host Oropher had amassed to march on Mordor was incredibly vast: to have such a resource pulled for the sake of Gil-galad's need for total command would be a foolhardy mistake. "As you wish it. You can discuss your plans with him when our forces combine."

Oropher nodded to himself in agreement, eyes trailing the map one last time, drinking in the details of a land he had never seen, yet was so detrimental to his people and decisions. "We've been preparing for so long," he muttered to himself. A hand quietly lifted the little red pebble, turning it deftly through his fingers. "And now it is time."

_This is it, this is truly it._ The skin of Legolas' neck and arms tingled unpleasantly. He drew a breath and held it, feeling the fear more keenly than ever before. He clenched his fists in an effort to maintain his composure and quash the rising anguish twisting his heart.

A light frown played over Thranduil's brow. His head angled ever so slightly as he gazed down on the map his father so intensely perused, as though he listened for something slight and distant. His grey eyes raised and pinned their attention momentarily on his son, and Legolas could not help but return the gaze with the conviction of his near-overpowering emotions. Pity for his youngest child swelled in their light, but there was a silent order there too, a command to Legolas to hold fast against what was to come.

_Don't go, Ada. Please._

But Thranduil looked away at the young elf's silent plea for him not to go, unable to see the pain in the dark blue eyes and stay strong against it himself.

"How long before we are ready to march, Thranduil?"

Thranduil visibly pulled himself back into place, though none of the others knew what had occurred between father and son. He straightened, as though the action could quell the parent in him and bring forth the commander. His eyes carefully avoided the section of the room Legolas occupied. "I dispatched riders on the arrival of Gil-galad's eagle yesterday. They will convene with us at the Fields on the morrow."

An odd light filtered into Oropher's eyes at the news. He nodded to himself, seemingly satisfied by his son's rapid response and content that everything was ready, that they were finally going to march on the enemy and put things back to rights...

"And what of your wardens, Baerahir? Are they prepared?"

_Baerahir?_ The use of the name was like a bucket of ice water tipped into his gut. _No... Not you too._

"They are, my King. We merely await your word."

Legolas' stomach twisted with a hit of nausea so strong he thought he might pass out with it. He had lost his family in the space of a moment. The room remained oblivious to him, the distant waves of serious conversation washing over and beyond him as he stood stock still, trapped in his own personal miasmal cloud of fear and horror. It felt like he was balancing on the edge of a great precipice, caught in a state of cruel limbo between falling over the brink now or later. Whatever way he attempted to view it, there was only one eventuality...

"...I believe Legolas more than capable of governing in our absence."

The use of his name pulled him harshly back into the room. Ah yes: governing. He recalled as from a distant dream the meeting of three years ago when his part had been discussed in the council. When the march on Mordor came to pass, Legolas would remain as ... what had they called it? _Defender of the realm_. Legolas had acquiesced, seeing it with the foolish hope that such a condition would never be enforced on him, that this talk of war was rumour and little else. Even through the years of preparation, he had still chosen to ignore it. Yet here it was, crouching over him like a thief in the night, blade at his throat and spiriting away everything he held dear.

Oblivious to his misgivings, many of the faces surrounding his grandfather illustrated clear acceptance of the decision ... but Legolas caught the fleeting glance between two elves of the council, Thidol and his friend Onrin, evidently the fruit of many a conspiratorial conversation. Their objection was clear, and, sure enough: "To Prince Legolas, my King?" Thidol queried carefully. "Would we not be better under the guidance of someone more, ah ..._ experienced_?"

"Legolas is well schooled, and more than capable."

"He is, Sire, I agree whole heartedly that for his young years, he has demonstrated excellent trade skills, but the running of the _kingdom_? His levels of experience-"

"Whatever support the Prince requires of the council is to be given, Thidol," said Daerahil assertively, stepping lightly forward to Legolas' elbow, like a protective wolf seeing off scavengers plaguing a young pup. "And whatever guidance he needs, he can gain from me." His normally warm honey eyes glittered with ice as they narrowed at his council rival. Neither of them had ever held any particular fondness for each other. "Am I experienced enough for you?"

Thidol bowed his head graciously, his face remaining carefully impassive, wisely backing down from argument with so many representatives from other states present. But his conflict with Daerahil was clearly not over, and that was what Legolas loathed about the council, the internal politics. But more so, he couldn't stomach the idea of sitting idly in the chambers discussing trade routes with the dowdy old men of Dale while his grandfather, father, and brother fought for their lives, and before he even fully realised himself, the words were pushing beyond his weakened defences and announcing his intentions to the room: "I'm coming with you. I'm coming to fight."

The room silenced. Too many pairs of eyes fixed themselves on him, apparently shocked to find that the younger prince of Eryn Galen was in possession of a voice. He didn't allow it to faze him, standing straight, backed by his own solid conviction and keeping his own gaze firmly on his grandfather. Baerahir had taught him to fight, had he not? Didn't Baerahir state earlier that he was gifted with knives?

Oropher blinked at him, his storming eyes clearly irritated by the daring interruption. "No."

"But Haru-"

"I have said no, Legolas. You will adhere to the duties I lay out for you without question."

Anyone older and wiser would have backed down from that steel glare and submitted to the clear command. But Legolas was newly of age, old enough to feel the burning commitment of love to his family, and old enough think himself willing – and ready – to potentially pay dearly for it. For Legolas, there was no other course of action open to him other than to go with them. To his eyes, the fact that he was young did not factor into the situation, and he refused to allow himself to be so rejected, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his grandfather in challenge of his decision and stubbornly ignoring the minute shake of warning of his father's head. "I can fight," he asserted brazenly. "I can hold my own."

Oropher's eyes flashed at the open defiance, the short nub of his patience rubbed to nothing. "Can you, now?" He did not shout. Such a reaction was unnecessary under the cold calm of his scorn. "I think not, Legolas. Do not speak of it again."

Perhaps it was his desperation that made him so foolhardy; whatever it was, for the first time in his life, Legolas refused to accept his grandfather's decree as the end. "Baerahir has taught me knifecraft," he pushed hurriedly. "Let me join with his-"

"_ENOUGH_!" Oropher's eruption of temper shook the room almost as hard as his slamming fist made Elrond's pebbles leap away from their careful placements. "You may have come of age, Legolas, but you confuse your childish naivety for courage, and I will _not_ have you using war as a vehicle to test your foolish pride," he spat. "You will stay in Eryn Galen as I command! Now leave. I will suffer your impertinence no longer."

Legolas fell into silence, the dark rose hint high on his cheekbones indicating his own anger all too fluidly. His feet defiantly stayed where they were, even as Oropher gave him a searing glare of warning that he had seen little of his temper yet. A hand firmly cupped his elbow and gave an asking tug. When Legolas refused its gentle request, the owner of the hand whispered in his ear: "Come out now, Legolas, and retain what little grace with him you have left."

He blinked. Some small and distant part of him heard the wisdom in the advice he was being given. Legolas gave a formal bow, the action stiff and jarred, and followed Daerahil from the room, feeling the stares on his retreating neck like a coward's shame. Even when the solid oak blocked them off from the proceedings within and those pursuing eyes, Daerahil took him well away from his grandfather's study to his own rooms. The chamber wasn't well lit, a lonely sconce on the far wall and weak fire idling in the fireplace giving the only illumination, casting them both into deep shadow. As soon as the door sealed them in, Daerahil turned to his young charge. It surprised Legolas to see disappointment in the tensed set of the other elf's expression. "You've just declared to those in the council who doubt you that your heart is not in your task. How can you expect them to follow you now?"

"That doesn't bother me, Daerahil," Legolas returned sharply. "What _bothers_ me is that I might never see my family again!" He began to pace, finding staying still impossible in his heightened state of frustration, his footfalls heavy on the stone flags. "What if something happens to one of them? I can fight, I can be there-"

"One opponent."

"What?"

"You can fight one opponent." Despite himself, the corner of Daerahil's mouth twitched. "I have little experience of war, I have to admit, but I am reasonably sure there is normally more than one of the enemy in attendance during a battle."

The stab at humour was not appreciated. "Don't patronise me. Please."

"I'm sorry, Legolas, but I managed to surprise you earlier. Or had you forgotten that?"

Legolas flinched at the reminder of his mistake. "That was an error on my part. I've learned from it." He finally ceased his pacing, coming to a stand a little distance from his father's friend and his own confidant.

"Enough to survive endless fighting?" Daerahil pressed mercilessly. "Enough to keep a sword from your back at all times _and _defend your front, and watch your grandfather, father and brother at the same time, as you say is your intent? I was on a horse, Legolas, and might I assure you, he was making no effort at stealth."

"What do you want me to do?" Legolas snapped. "Do you expect me to watch them go and stay here complacently in the council, while they fight for their lives in lands hundreds of leagues from home?"

"That is _exactly_ what I expect you to do!" Daerahil bit back, his patience wearing thin. "I expect _you_ to do exactly as _everyone else_ is forced to do! You are not the only one in the kingdom who will have to endure not knowing, Legolas. Find a way to live with the fact, and move beyond it."

The young elf chewed his cheek at Daerahil's blunt summary. He was right, of course he was, but that did not make it any easier for him to stomach. If he stayed, if he idled away the war sat mired in paperwork and discussions, the inaction would surely drive him mad. "I can ... I can..."

"You can what?"

"I can _be there_!"

"But don't you realise?" Daerahil demanded in exasperation. "There is a _reason_ you can't go, Legolas, and it has nothing to do with age, or your fighting capabilities." When the prince merely blinked, arms stubbornly folded over his chest and jaw clenched, Daerahil heaved a weighted sigh. "If all four of you go to war and the worst happens," he said levelly, "Eryn Galen is left without a ruler. You must stay and protect your family's line and command."

Legolas paled. "But I'm not as strong as Haru or Ada." Panicked light caught in his blue eyes faster than dry tinder to a candle. "Daerahil. I _cannot_ be king!"

The elf lord shook his head with a grave, sad sympathy. Legolas was right: he did not carry the natural strong characteristics of a ruler, like his grandfather and father. While the work he did with the council was done well, there was a lack of instinct behind it, more a running of training than the application of feeling. Yes, he was young yet, and inexperience made him all the more vulnerable to his sense of inadequacy, but it had been clear for a long time now that he did not possess that level of innate shrewd skill that came as second nature to his elders. Were he allowed to follow his heart into the field in which he possessed such blatant talent, Legolas could be a great warrior, and potentially an even greater military leader.

But Legolas had been born the second son. Fate did not care for gifts or willingness, and so it had placed him into a position he did not fit. He accepted it, and following so many years of careful coaching, Legolas had always thought he knew what his role in palace life entailed ... but war with Mordor had ripped the covers away, showing him what truly lay beneath, and what he saw frightened him. To Daerahil, it was a sad, sad waste. "I am sorry, Legolas, so, so sorry, but you might not have a choice."

-(())-

Hours after the feverish activity leading to the departure of Oropher and the first element of his great host, the ensuing silence that sheathed the palace seemed choking.

Now, a spread of papers awaited his attention, neatly compiled into heaps of importance. The piles of matters requiring his immediate address was, naturally, the highest. Staring at it and willing it to go away, he discovered, did little to diminish the workload. This was his life now. _You'd better get used to it._

Legolas reached out to the closest paper, dragging it across his cluttered desk to his reluctant attention, reading the title twice before the topic was able to penetrate into his unwilling understanding:

_RIGHTS OF PASSAGE BY QUARTER THROUGH MEANS OF TAXABLE GOODS ALLOWANCE_

"I have absolutely no idea what that means." Legolas blinked at the paper, trying to absorb what the title was trying to tell him. He tried – in vain – not to be too fazed by the massive size of the parchment in comparison to the diminutive characters neatly passing left to right across its face. _How completely you've misplaced your trust, Haru._

No matter how many times his dark blue eyes passed over the document, or tried to focus on each individual word to make the whole sentence make sense to him, no level of concentration could force the words to materialise from meaningless marks to anything even remotely resembling understanding in his head. He would never forget standing in the shrouding snow beside their mother, positioned at the front of the sombre crowd as the freshly appointed leader of their lands, even if it was – hopefully – only temporary. The robes made for him to fit with his new role sat heavily on his shoulders, weighing him down in swathes of material and new authority. The earthen hues of his grandfather's house had stood stark against the white, his own newly-designed insignia adorning his chest in the form of a small badge: a young buck, standing still with its small-antlered head bowed. _How fitting_, he had thought with open acrimony.

His grandfather was wrong about him, completely and utterly wrong. Before he could stop himself, his own bitterness asked if Oropher could possibly know him at all to think his only concern was proving himself. _I wish only to protect those whom I love_... Or was _that _what Oropher was really saying? That Legolas' lack of experience meant he did not understand what it was he wanted to put himself into? Whether his grandfather liked it or not, they were his family, and he had a duty to keep them safe. They wanted him to run the kingdom, to keep the seat of power warm for their return. _"That is your role, Legolas: do it well."_ Or was he saying he had no right to defend what was his, because he was young, because he was unpractised? Legolas pulled his hands over his face, trying to loosen the hold this distorting fog held over him...

He reached a decision.

The chair scraped the stone flags with an agonised rasping cry when he pushed back from the desk and turned his back on the heaped documents. The strangling trap of flowing robes that marked his new authority hindered his natural grace as he fled his rooms, wrapping around his legs and trying to stop him reaching Baerahir's chambers. It was his greatest pleasure to drag the choking material over his head and abandon it in a lonely and shapeless mess on his brother's floor. The spare jerkin and leggings he foraged from the depths of the chest fitted him well enough, the heady scent of cedar radiating from the light cloth and suede giving him a refreshed lease of life. He felt freer now, a hunting cat released, and it gave him extra fire, a flare of courage and determination when he adorned his own back with Baerahir's spare knives and less favoured bow and quiver.

Now he could really move, he made quick work of the hallways, light and silent, little more than a shadow. There was no-one about to witness his stealthy escape; the hour was late, and most were to their chambers, unwilling to face the other occupants of the palace following the departure of so many loved ones. Despite the absence of the others, his heart caught in his chest at every new and concealing angle in the passages, and he negotiated all of them only after listening carefully.

The route he chose was longer than he could have done, as he carefully diverted his course away from their mother's bower; Emmonara had suffered enough stress that day without her having to endure this too. Legolas inwardly cringed at the thought of what he was about to do to her, recalling the image of her burning tears earlier and wishing there was something he could do to assuage her grief. Now, he was preparing to add to it.

The cold of the night reached sharply into his lungs as he slipped out into the courtyard, but it couldn't touch him, the slight imprints of evidence his feet made swallowed conspiringly by the descending flakes. _Ssshh, go, GO!_

Celu whinnied to his shadow as he ghosted into the stables, but it was not Celu his urgency needed. Celos flicked his ears at Legolas' approach, curious and a little wary as Legolas entered his stall -

"What are you doing, Legolas?"

The already-knowing query lanced a sudden spike of fear through him. Legolas did not lift his eyes to the speaker, the all too familiar voice spurring him to greater speed with the panic it inspired. His long hands lighted on the stallion's back only as a paltry offering of warning before he brought himself up in a single leap. Celos started under the contact of the unfamiliar rider, muscles bound tight in anticipation of something different, and it took the slightest whisper of touch from Legolas' legs for the stallion to leap the rope barrier keeping him in and charge the stable door at full gallop.

Daerahil only just moved out of the way in time, his intention to stop the tack-free horse flung completely asunder by the speed of the prince's departure. He ran out into the courtyard himself, panic flaring though his body at what his young charge was doing. "LEGOLAS!"

But the horse was already gone, swallowed whole by the night, the deep, dead silence of snowfall the only response he received.

-(())-

There were no tracks for him to follow, all evidence of the passage of Oropher's host already dusted out by the marring snow. That did not bother him: he knew where he could find them anyway. Speed was his only concern. Legolas asked for it in earnest from his stolen horse, and Celos gladly provided, stretching his legs out and covering the distance with clean and unparalleled ability. Legolas tried not to think on what he was leaving behind. No matter how hard he tried, though, he could not forget the clear panic in Daerahil's cry as it chased him out of the courtyard, and he strained all the harder to block the image of his mother's distress when she would discover his decision.

Horse and rider did not stop through the night, though Legolas had to make Celos do bouts of walking and steady trotting for fear of exhausting him … his need was urgent, but not urgent enough to ruin his brother's horse, or any other for that matter. The waxy light of dawn pulling at the edges of darkness coincided with their final break from the trees into the open world. The land dipped away from them into a vast flood plain - the Gladden Fields - with the strong clean spine of smooth white of the frozen Anduin snaking across its core. And there, traversing the Fields in ordered blocks, was the total of Oropher's army. In the distance, he could see the Eryn Galen banner catching the new light at the very head of the procession, the proud white hart fittingly leading the way to war.

Legolas spurred Celos down into the vale with renewed drive, the electric buzz firing through his veins filling his muscles with an almost nervous energy…

Elves turned their disciplined heads in surprise as he cantered past them. The ripple of disquiet his appearance caused did not go unnoticed by him, but he didn't care, eyes ghosting over the ranks in an effort to find his brother. Worry began to edge at him as he passed row after row of soldiers, drawing ever closer to the head of the column where the royal insignia snapped and billowed in winter's icy breath, unhindered out here by trees. He needed to keep as great a distance as possible between himself and that emblem…

So caught in worrying over who marched under the flag was he that he cantered past the small procession of warriors clad in the same earthen greens and browns he himself had thieved. Celos reared against his rider's sudden instruction to stop and turn. The band of warriors marched towards him, preparing to pass and casting only cursorily glances his way. And there in their lead, dark blond hair bound back in warrior braids, was the one he sought-

"Baerahir!"

His brother's head whipped round at the hail. "_Legolas_ – what are you doing here?" His stunned expression quickly heightened to panic. "What's happened? Is Naneth alright? _What's happened_?"

Legolas shook his head hastily, upsetting his brother being the last thing he wished to do. "Nothing, she's fine, they're all fine." He pushed Celos round again, walking him along the marching line so he could maintain conversation with his brother.

Baerahir's ageless face creased in a confused frown, the elder brother privately wondering if his sanity were slipping and if his much younger sibling really was riding _his _horse beside the march. "Then what are you doing here?" But then Baerahir really _looked_ at his younger brother for the first time, taking in his clothing, the thieved knives and bow at his back, his sweating and tack-free horse. His face darkened, not liking what he saw at all. "What are you doing here, Legolas?"

"Is that not obvious?" the younger elf asked haughtily. "I'm coming with you."

A coldness crossed Baerahir's eyes, so intense it shamed the frozen landscape around them. He turned his gaze forward, his carriage becoming as ridged as his tone. "Get back home, Legolas. Right now."

"I'm not going home. I've made my choice."

Baerahir shook his head stiffly, keeping his stare straight into the back of the elf in the band before him; the hard intensity of his eyes was so severe it was surprising the soldier did not feel them searing the back of his neck. "It doesn't matter what choice you _think _you've made; it was made for you, and it was for you to stay at home."

Legolas felt the first flickering of his own anger at his brother's open dismissal of him. "I am tired of being told what I can and cannot do. I am of age, Baerahir-"

"So you keep saying, Legolas, but you seem to forget what 'being of age' entails," Baerahir said waspishly. Then: "I never believed you could be so selfish."

Had Baerahir struck him, Legolas would have felt less pain. His heart seemed to pause, as though trying to discern if what his ears had heard was correct. He was hardly aware of Celos' movements beneath him, too consumed by the damaging words of the one he loved most. Betrayal and hurt scored their marks across his resolve with terrible precision. Unfortunately, it was anger that rose under the guise of mending the wounds, and with far too much zeal…

"_Selfish_? I am bound with chains of authority that I have no chance of mastering, with the back-biting and sniping of the council for support, while you all disappear to war, and you say _I _am selfish?"

The heavy impact to his chest threw him from Celos' back into the snow and the stallion squealed and bolted in fright. Baerahir came so fast out of his line Legolas had no recollection of his movement. The freezing embrace of the deep snow numbed his body through the light jerkin and leggings, but there was no way he could get up with Baerahir weighing down on his chest and pinning his shoulders, caring little for any discomfort felt at the bulk of weaponry gouging into Legolas' back. "Do you not understand?" Baerahir hissed, his eyes glowing with a rage Legolas had never before witnessed in him. "There is no _choice_ here, Legolas! There is duty, and I would sooner acknowledge an orc as a brother than have my own blood deny his responsibilities and abandon his people!"

Legolas bucked under Baerahir's weight, throwing his brother's balance enough to disengage himself and get to his feet. "Don't _you_ understand?" Legolas shot back, surprising Baerahir when his voice resounded with hurt and sadness so strong it heavily contrasted with the light arrogance of earlier, his youthful blue eyes brightening with fierce pain. "I'm not _interested_ in proving myself to you, or Haru, or even myself. I don't _want_ to go to war, Baerahir, the idea of it terrifies me!" He diverted his eyes to the progressing march, no longer able to look his brother directly in the face. "But the idea of never seeing you again is more frightening to me than any measure of torment or death Sauron could impose on me. I would take him on alone if it meant you were safe."

Nothing save heavy puffs of frozen air existed between them in a stretch of silence. All Baerahir could do was stare at the younger elf he had so harshly wronged. His assertion that his brother was a bloody-minded fool had been flipped on its back: yes, Legolas was headstrong, proud, and more than a little arrogant … but Baerahir could see now that he was loving, and incredibly loyal, and he felt a sharp sense of shame at his own short-sightedness. Thranduil had been displeased at Legolas' behaviour in the council, but not nearly as irked as Oropher, who had been quite vocal on the fact, and Baerahir had to admit to himself that he had shared their sentiment. All three of them had completely misread his motives. It felt like the darkest betrayal now that he had doubted his brother so.

"Legolas…"

But Legolas was not finished. "I am nothing without you." He shook his head, angered tears burning his pinched cheeks as they made their escape. They made him look so very young, and Legolas evidently realised that fact as he wiped them away furiously, as though the truth of their existence disgusted him. But he still pulled his eyes back to his brother as he quietly demanded: "Who else is going to keep the trolls from your back out there, Baerahir?"

Baerahir's heart restricted until he feared it would tear itself. "But you _can't_, Legolas. No – listen," he urged, as his brother's head shook in disbelief and he started to back away. Baerahir crossed the short distance between them that had become so far, grasping Legolas by the shoulders and stopping his retreat from the cold truth. "Don't you see? There are no choices. Not for us. _This _is what it means to be us, Legolas; we are bound by blood to our people, and nothing can ever be allowed to surmount that, nothing… Not even each other."

Legolas licked his lips and kept his eyes beyond his brother, his breath marking the air between them with shallow stops of cloud. "I understand," he uttered. The evident heartache in Legolas' eyes as the young elf came to terms with the real implications of their birth showed Baerahir too clearly that they were not just words given as a hollow gesture. "I understand." He tried for a wavering smile at his brother, but could do little to restrain the choking sob from rendered it broken.

Baerahir pulled Legolas tightly to him. The contact was not enough, it could never be enough, the fact that this could too easily be their final time together more than either of them could stand to think of. But that impeding sense of duty was reinforced too soon for either of them by an awkward cough from behind…

"Sir … is everything well?" came a lieutenant's cautious query.

Baerahir sighed into his brother's shoulder, suppressing the pain in his throat. "I am begging you," he whispered thickly in Legolas' ear, holding on to him for as long as he could, "do not follow us; you might hold no fear of what Sauron could do to you, but I do." With that, he kissed his brother's brow, and left to join his lieutenant's side. There was nothing more he could stand to say to Legolas now-

"Promise me you'll come back!" Legolas shouted through the veil of thickening snowfall at Baerahir's retreating back. When he received no reply, a knife of desperation struck through his tone. "Baerahir! _Promise me_!"

Baerahir halted, letting himself look over his shoulder one last time. Him brother stared brokenly after him, at once part of and separate to the thickening landscape surrounding him and terribly alone. What he was doing felt so keenly like abandonment he could barely stand it … but he could not face making a promise of that magnitude, knowing where he was going, what he was going to face. A prickle of fear traced his spine and peaked in a shudder before he could control it. "I can't do that for you, Legolas. I'm so sorry, but I just can't."

-(())-

_Over three years later…_

"This has been going on for years. Are you saying to me that I, right _now_, have to give you a solution?"

"We seek justice from you, that is all." He was old, the speaker, sat in his best robes in the council chambers and enjoying the king's wine stock, taking a sip after every contribution to the discussion. Alcohol was not permitted in the meetings, but the man had managed to slip it in without his elven hosts noticing before the cup made its bold appearance on the bench. While it angered Legolas to see him so brazenly flout their rule, Daerahil discreetly bid him let the matter rest, and so the cup remained, the aging farmer drinking and looking Legolas directly in the eye whenever he did so.

His mind itched with restlessness. Legolas reviewed the documents before him on the matter with a heavy eye. This argument was older than he was. It concerned boarder infringement at the western boundary of Oropher's kingdom, not by marauding raiders, but farmers, insistent that the lands did in fact belong to them, and not to Oropher, and that their born right to the earth was being impeded by the elves, who – in their eyes – did not use the land and had no right to it anyway. The fact was, by the sheer nature of men and their fleeting lives, their memories were more prone to the corruption of time than those of elves ... some of whom could actually be called upon as first-hand witnesses to ownership, considering that they were actually _there_ six centuries ago when the boarder was originally drawn and the land signed over by their lord. But the Adan's charter of ownership had long ago disappeared and passed into little more than myth to those who opposed its original quality. The copy the elves retained was not good enough for them … the men never said it out loud, but the entire Eryn Galen council knew they thought it a forgery. Tensions were running a little higher than such a matter should ever merit.

Legolas leaned back in his chair and gave the cluster of delegates an exasperated look. "But I have seen the original charter, signed by your lord of that time. I have seen the map. The boundaries are clearly marked." He shook his head to himself, glancing over the documents before him once more. The results of past negotiations were stated soundly in front of him; his cynical side suggested they were only here because they knew the king was away, that the young and naïve second grandson was in charge. They had never met with him ... young, certainly. Naive? Perhaps. But Legolas knew well when he was being worked, and he had absolutely no intention of being twisted to the whims of humans. "I confess, I am having difficulty seeing where your problem lies with the land plans." He fixed his dark stare on the representatives, unblinking and penetrating. A shiver of discomfort visibly ran over a couple of the younger ones. "The land is very clearly ours. I think the issue here is with the taxes the king imposes on you, not the land itself."

They weren't the most diplomatic words he had ever uttered. Daerahil visibly cringed beside him at the shrewd tactlessness of his words and the ensuing eruption of outraged shouts from the younger delegates. The words "thieves" and "impertinent dolt" were thrown into the room with the haphazard absence of care affiliated with lack of understanding and false justification. Legolas allowed them to vent their frustrations and his own people to try and quell their frayed pride. This quibbling argument was more than he could handle today. He didn't know what it was, but the sense of restlessness that had settled on him like hot ash would not give him peace. The council chambers were suffocating, the bickering of the men and careful words of the elves piling on his over-sensitive mood in a heavy blanket of meaninglessness-

The heavy oak chamber door rebounded on itself as it flung open. Surprised silence conquered the bickering at the intrusion of the elven guard, his light and unhampering garb indicating him as coming from one of the sentry patrols. He was completely unfazed by the fact of his interruption, wide and excited eyes seeking Legolas out amongst the crowd and addressing only him with a simple: "They have returned!"

Legolas felt his stomach drop. His chair nearly toppled when he leapt to his feet, dragging his council robes over his head and abandoning them in favour of the freer shirt and leggings underneath. Before any measure of decorum could be imposed on him, he was flying out the door with only a paltry word of apology to the delegates and running beside the guard for the courtyard, heart in his mouth and a feeling of heady nervousness twisting at his gut. The two of them burst through the palace doors and through the courtyard, paying little heed to the succession of other similarly excited elves in their wake.

Legolas ran flat out, haring through the gates and out onto the forest road, taking the sudden openness with a free acceleration. His sudden speed was more than even the guard was able to match, but he cared little for the difficulties of the others, homing in on the distant disjointed sound of many, many feet passed to him by the welcoming urging of the trees. He propelled himself round a sharp twist in the road that navigated an ancient cluster of beech trees – and halted.

They were little more than a third of the original force he had witnessed crossing the frozen vale of the Anduin three years prior. So few of them … and so many clearly injured, too many pairs carrying litters with their more severely wounded companions cradled in their canvas hold. There was no bright energy of purpose to their walk as there had been so long ago, just a resigned thankfulness to finally be beneath the great iridescent greens and coppers of their beech home. The initial shock of their depleted numbers was too much for his stunned eyes to take in at first, and Legolas found himself looking again, hoping that what he saw was a mere trick of the new spring haze throwing his perception … but with a hook of sadness he realised that his eyes were terribly accurate.

With a spear of dread, he turned his attention to the head of the procession, knowing who should be there and at once desperate to see and frantic to stay away…

Thranduil, his father, headed the procession, framed on either side by heralds maintaining the limply hanging elevation of Eryn Galen's colours. His right arm was tightly bound to his chest and he moved with a slightly staggering gait, the armour he had originally departed in gone in favour of a jerkin under which his torso appeared thicker than it should. To Legolas, it looked like the heralds should be carrying his father, not the banners.

But what really made Legolas' heart thunder for release was the fact that Thranduil silently headed their army as the lone authority. No Oropher, no Baerahir. Some desperate element of him clamoured that they had to be injured, carried in litters like the others, just concealed from his view by the ranks … but the rest of him, the part that felt the tears breaking on his cheeks, knew what the real and terrible truth had to be.

When the head of the procession drew level with the still figure at the roadside, Thranduil broke free of his army, walking with deliberate care to stand at his son's front. He said nothing, because he knew of no way to voice the shattering truth of what had happened. The haunted emptiness in his eyes suggested he struggled to cope with what he had seen. He didn't know how to tell his youngest child that he was now his only child.

"Ada…" Legolas' voice cracked on the word. "Ada, please…"

Thranduil swallowed, diverting his gaze from his son's fracturing heart, and presented him with a long bundle Legolas had failed to notice him carrying, wrapped carefully in a grey cloak. Legolas stared at it, frozen. He didn't want it. He knew what lay within those folds. If he held them, if they were made his…

His arms held themselves out without his command to numbly accept what his soul feared to acknowledge, and the long and narrow package found its way into his possession, eliciting a gentle muffled greeting of steel against steel as the too familiar weight settled against him. Dark blooms marked the material as he sank into the road's dusty embrace and wept, grasping the knives in their cloak tightly to his chest.

-(())-

_Nearly three thousand years later, Between._

He knew he lived. Some part of him, detached and so very far away, told him that air laboured through his lungs yet. It knew the thready struggles of his heartbeat chasing the blood through his veins, blood that did not entirely stay within the confines of flesh. It was a harsh form of existence, but it knew life. He couldn't regard that element of himself with any degree of love or want. Out there, there could only be pain. He didn't want that. The pitiful remnants of his life-force would not endure without him, but he shied from it, frightened by the damage the body had sustained and not wanting to be affiliated with such broken pain.

And yet … something made him stay, catching on his resolve like a hook. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how determined he was to simply let go and leave, he could not bring himself to do so. But there was no way he could alleviate the sensation. _No… Not without going back. I don't want to go back…_

It continued to cry for his attention, struggling to remain without him but rapidly failing, drowning in its own crippled efforts.

He turned an ear to its echoing sorrow…

_Let it fail__._

He listened to the instruction, and took heed of the simple wisdom. It should be so easy to leave it to its own devices … it was just a body, after all, just a vehicle for the carriage of his soul, and his soul did not wish to stay with something so badly damaged. After all, why should he? What was there that could possibly tie him to the mess his physical form had become? He felt saddened at turning his back, but he turned it all the same.

_I don't want to go back._

The protesting whisper edged through him like a lance at his betrayal, too weak to be a shout, but strong enough to be heard. Oddly, it did not press his own need to live on him, but a sworn promise he had made on his own blood many, many years ago.

There was a memory there, deep and unmoving and piercing, almost as old as he was. Funny he had not thought of it before… What it was exactly, he could not be sure. It was important, so, _so _important, something only he could tend to, because that was the oath he had taken.

He took a hesitant step the other way.

_Out there, you can only hurt. You don't deserve that. Stay._

_I want to stay…_

_Then do so. Stay here, and be safe. They are waiting for you._

Regret burned him, the first infliction of pain since arriving. He wanted to see them again. So badly…

_I can't. I swore._

_Children swear. Warriors make their own decisions._

From the other way, they called to him. Long, sorrowful cries that resounded with loving sadness that he had come to this, finding himself in a place he was never meant to be. But bound to the sadness was happiness; they could be together again, all of them, united in a place none of them should ever have come to, but united all the same. Longing so strong it near enough tore him apart tried to pull him to them … but he could not ignore that pitiful, crying element of his being, stranded in a wounded thing so far away.

He could not ignore the promise made to blood spilled, and the desperate need of Hope itself, because he was bound by a duty stronger than death.

-(())-

Awareness sank through his consciousness like a rock in quicksand. The clamour of his body redoubling its efforts at survival blocked him off from the outside world; blood burned along its course, rushing past his ears in roaring bursts. But with the stronger pumping of his heart came true fire, pain so total it obliterated any memory of what it was to be without it. His chest shuddered with his first panicked breath-

Legolas' reflexes hurled him over from his prone position without care for the excruciating pain the action caused him and disgorged the contents of his gut, water and mud, stone and blood. The forced contraction of his muscles made his entire body scream, each individual agony amplified thousand fold as the spasms struck again and again until there was nothing left in him. Even after that, his reflexes were not done with him as he choked up mucky water from the pits of his lungs, tears of forced effort and pain cleaning through the dirt and blood marring his cheeks.

When it eventually passed, there was nothing he could do save lie still, his face pressed numbly into the stone as he concentrated on slowly collecting his senses together. He was drenched to the bone and very cold, so much so his body juddered with it, but he couldn't muster the strength to do anything about it. He could not remember a time when he had felt such perishing and numbing cold. Dimly, he realised his feet were being pulled at and hauled them closer to the rest of him, piecing the sensation and the sound of fast water together and recalling a river from his recent past … a strong, angry river. And everything gushed back to him, so forceful it felt like he was drowning again, only this time in memories… Their flight through the forest; the attack of the Ulaer; his fight with them on the scree slope, when he lost-

At the remembrance he became more keenly aware of the damage to his side. Without wanting to, he could smell his own blood, hanging in a repulsive heavy metallic shroud around him. He knew the complete agony of his severed flesh running up his side, and the broken grate of the ribs that had stopped the sword from outright killing him. He tried to get up then in a thoughtless bid to escape the pain, pushing his right palm into his bed of stones-

But a knife of white hot agony sliced a piercing scream from him. He collapsed back into the mud, face screwed tight against the sudden brutish hurt of his broken shoulder blade, his throbbing teeth clenched so tightly they would surely crack and fingers clawing into the silt and stone, sharp bursts of hissing breath mixed with barely suppressed cries.

There was nothing he could do save ride out the pain, fighting to retain his thready hold on consciousness. He had to leave, he couldn't stay; if he stayed, the Valar knew what would find him. But despair tugged at his already threadbare resolve … to leave would mean he needed to find his feet, and he simply didn't think he was able to do it.

_You had a choice_, some small part of him chided. _For the first time in your life, you had a choice, and you chose _this. _Make something of it!_

Legolas gingerly flexed his left hand, testing its grip, revolving the wrist. When no pain came, he moved up his arm until he reached his shoulder, giving it an experimental roll. It hurt, but not enough for a break, and he put the pain down to bruising … his right shoulder had clearly taken the main brunt of whatever it was he had collided with.

Pushing himself upright resulted in an extraordinary amount of pain for him anyway. The stress the movement exerted on his side was almost more than he could take, and it took several attempts and much self-berating to force himself onto his seat. He never realised until that point exactly how many muscles were involved, and something so simple as making himself sit up was suddenly the hardest thing he could possibly undertake. He managed to pull his legs underneath himself, but actually getting to his feet was too much for him at that point. Legolas practically collapsed into the boulder beside him, his splitting head made giddy by the change in orientation. He simply breathed for a time, shallow pants that moved his chest as little as possible.

One eye cracked open, and then the other, and both winced together at the scoring light filtering between his lashes. But, frustrated with his ever mounting catalogue of hurts, Legolas would not allow his eyes to fail him, and he forced them to open fully. The world was a blurred grey mess for a time, but his vision gradually eased into its usual perfection.

The landscape to his left was a mass of hulking boulders under the dawn sky, strewn across an otherwise flat base of rock slabs, buckling awkwardly together like a child's badly completed puzzle. An edge of dark forest fended the rock away, standing as a silent sentinel not twenty feet from him. To his right, his attempted killer, the river, surged over itself furiously as though vexed it had not succeeded in taking him. Legolas carefully twisted his head round to acknowledge the thunder behind him. His knew his condition was poor at best, but looking at the steps of water, he was stunned that he had emerged at all; how he had not been caught in the current at the bottom of the falls, he had no idea. A shudder ran through his back with more than just cold.

He had been putting it off, but he needed to see. He had to show himself how bad it was, even though there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. Legolas shifted carefully, stretching out his left leg until it hurt too much to push it further, and leaned back into the boulder's unforgiving hardness, and steeled himself:

His entire side was dark and wet. The gaping cut through jerkin and shirt acted as a heavily stained access point. Legolas made himself peel back the sodden cloth to allow for a better view, and had to fight down the hit of fresh nausea at what greeted him…

Everything was a mess of fresh blood emerging from a deep and lengthy gash, gaping at him like some crude attempt at a mouth in his side. At the very top, the sharp edge of his lowest rib was just visible inside… Just seeing it made the pain blaze all the more. But there was another pain he felt, more keenly even than his physical hurts: the quiver at his back was too light. The loss of arrows he accepted, and he remembered too clearly the moment when the bow had been ripped from his desperate grasp … but he knew without needing to reach behind himself that his knives were gone. The remaining elements of his brother that he had left, and they were gone. The moment of realisation was more painful to him than anything any sword could inflict.

His good hand pressed into the wound as he rocked himself, bringing his right knee up and biting down on it in an attempt to dispel both the pain and the tears of utter despair tracking his face.

Translations: _hên – _child

Ada – Father

Haru – Grandfather

adan – men


	12. Chapter Twelve: Discoveries

CHAPTER TWELVE: DISCOVERIES

In the end, Aragorn had to split himself off from the others. His irritation at himself was high enough to spill over his boundaries and inflict itself on them, and that was something they did not deserve, and a stretch of guilt he could do without. He did not go too far, but distanced himself enough so that their happy chattering was more of a background persistence than the grating annoyance he had been finding it. He knew that wasn't overly fair of him … the hobbits merely expressed their joy at discovering that Legolas lived, and Gimli joined them in it, booming laughter at their antics with his own heart so lightened.

But by the way they acted, anyone would imagine that they had discovered their elven friend unhurt and safe, pleasantly surprised to see them and armed with a terrific campfire story. _If only that were so_…

All his tracking through the waning daylight had given him was a sense of the direction in which the elf travelled, his near-invisible tracks punctuated every now and then with a smear of blood as they veered south east. Yes, he was clearly alive, and that was a thing so great Aragorn found it near overwhelming … yet all Aragorn could see in his mind's eye was the dark pool in the hollow under that boulder, the fingers of his left hand still tingling with the memory of touching the dark print left so tellingly on stone. The healer in him could not bring himself to celebrate knowing his friend was so badly hurt and completely alone.

The press of darkness eventually made him cede defeat and set up camp, damning the weakness of his Second-born eyes more fervently than ever before. Even for one so wounded, Legolas had left the most meagre evidence of his passage possible, and the distance he had succeeded in putting between them was no small stretch. Aragorn followed the faint tracks into the trees until his nose practically traced the ground. Yet it was Gimli who finally called a halt to their search, and despite his drive to continue, Aragorn was forced to accept that he was more likely to lose Legolas' tracks in the darkness than find them.

"Surely," Gimli had said in response to Aragorn's chagrin at stopping as he settled himself by the new and straining fire, a hunk of _lembas_ in hand, "his tracks will be there in the morning. If I know the elf at all, he's sensible enough to pitch down for the night. I don't think you have anything to worry over."

"Elves do not want to be found at the best of times, Gimli, more so when they know they are vulnerable. And believe me when I say he is not making this easy for me."

"Well, you can't see in the dark, so take this as an opportunity and rest. You need it."

There was no rest he would ever find until he had Legolas under his care, but he elected to keep that to himself, knowing arguing was a fruitless waste of time and patience when there was nothing to be done for it anyway…

Aragorn placed each boot carefully in an attempt at preserving the silence, but the greeting crackle of dried beech leaves rendered his efforts pointless. His stomach jolted at the stab of a still-young memory of shingle crunching beneath his soles instead, accented by the mocking words of an elf over his sorry mortal labours. _That was only two nights ago. It feels like decades_. He abandoned his efforts and grinned grimly despite himself. "I am hiding again, mellon nin." Only, this time, no good-natured jibe came to him from the boughs of the trees, nor did a life-long friend drop casually from their heights to keep a more understanding company with him. The forest merely absorbed his words with silent indifference.

The ranger sighed his loneliness into the night and turned his eyes skywards. The dark velvet blanket was littered with the dust of starlight, unhindered by moon or cloud. He stayed and stared into it for a time, lost in the countless drops. Even for a man, he found their presence soothing … some reflection of his very distant elven heritage, he supposed.

"I hope you can see these, my friend," he said quietly to the night. "I hope they bring you some comfort."

-(())-

_Earlier that day, and several leagues away_…

He hated that they lagged so. That, and their flat silence. Every time he turned his head to check on them, they were several feet behind. He had initially given them constant reminders that staying at his side would be safer in the event of an attack, and they had obliged him for a time, making the effort to draw closer and match his urgent stride…

He had given up after he swivelled his head for the eighth time and saw that there were several feet of forest between him and them. That was what it had become now: _him_ and _them_. Any trace of companionship that had once existed was gone, washed away in one night. The constant silence they maintained blanked him completely as they walked in each other's company, and he preferred not to look back at them now, grown weary of Sam's sullen and accusative stares.

Boromir could not deny that it stung to be so slighted, but he had to harden himself to their attitude: he did not need their friendship to take them to Minas Tirith, nor did he need their consent.

The damned trees in this part of the forest were conspiring against him. There was nothing to the horizon save their obstructing bulk, blotting out the way like an impenetrable wall of frozen soldiers. Boromir was not one to be defeated by overgrown shrubs, however, and he trudged on with grit determination up the steep rise in the land, concentrating on where he placed his feet in the slick mire of mud and leaf litter. Hours and hours ago now, they had come across such a peak in the lay of the land, and their efforts to its head had been rewarded only with more trees. After an accented change in direction, he knew they must have travelled miles despite the slack pace with which the hobbits managed to bridle him. This time, he fully expected to see a clear view of the Anduin, a proud and glimmering guide home…

Except, when he stopped at the crest and looked expectantly out before him, there was no serpentine streak of silver in the distance to offer him a direct course to follow, no panning view of the land that could give him a clear understanding of where he needed to lead them. What were there, and in truly great abundance, were trees. Boromir blinked in disbelief, and before he could hold himself back, released a bellow of defeated rage and flung his shield with such force into the ground it bounced several feet from him.

"You know we've been here before?" a voice called coolly.

Boromir turned a murderous glare in Sam's direction. The hobbit was stood easily at the foot of the incline, having not bothered to set so much as a toe on the steeper gradient. He hadn't been joined by his master yet, Frodo only just coming up to join him. Sam didn't flinch at the intensity of Boromir's flaring ire. "And I suppose you've known that all along, have you?" the Gondorian bit back acidly.

Sam shrugged a shoulder in nonchalant dismissal in the face of the other's anger. Boromir shook his head in open irritation and turned his eyes back to the unyielding trees. To him, everything looked the same in a forest, but now that he properly observed where they were, there were certain distinguishing features he recalled from all that time ago … the mostly rotted conformation of the particularly aged and decrepit beech to his right; the way the land scooped at the bowls of those four trees over there, creating a deep pit of mud deceptively concealed by brittle leaves. Now that he looked at it, he could see the point where his boots had sunk in it last time.

Snatching up his shield, he allowed his anger to utilise his embarrassment as he trudged heavily down the steep incline towards the hobbits, refraining from looking at them directly. "We set a new course," he told them brashly. "We go east." He did not wait for objections, setting out from them with a determinedly authoritative stride.

Sam frowned to himself. That was what Boromir had said before. His sense as a hobbit had informed him hours ago that they were going in a very large circle, but he had elected to keep that information to himself: he had absolutely no inclination of helping Boromir take them and the Ring to Minas Tirith. He recalled the hushed argument he had overheard a few nights hence, Strider's vehement words resounding in his head: "_I would not lead the Ring within a hundred leagues of your city_." If that was the sentiment of their rightful leader, then that was the sentiment Sam would live by. He only prayed Strider would find them soon…

"Please don't provoke him, Sam."

Sam turned at the unexpected interruption into his thoughts, a little surprised to hear the weariness in his close friend's voice. Frodo looked desperately worn: a drawn heaviness had taken over his eyes, marring their usual bright clarity with shadow. It distressed Sam to see him so clearly tired. "I'm sorry, Frodo," he said sincerely. "I can't help resenting the situation he's pulled us into though, you know? This was never meant to be part of the plan…"

"I know, Sam, I know, but there's not a lot we can do about it." Frodo sighed, his eyes on Boromir's striding form. "We need his protection, and I don't think he'd ever hurt us…"

"You 'don't think'?" Sam queried, brows slightly raised at the thin lacing of doubt in Frodo's tone. "I don't know, Frodo… I've always liked Boromir, but I've never really fully trusted him since the council. And after that horrible business of losing Legolas and getting split from the others and all, I trust him even less."

Frodo didn't reply to Sam's weighted words. A heavy sigh fell from his lips as he resumed the walk after their self-appointed new leader. Behind him, Sam shook his head to himself, but followed all the same. Wherever Frodo chose to go was where he would go … his word was his bond, and he did not intend to break the promise made to one now lost. The losses they had suffered made him feel as though he was practically haemorrhaging friends, and while there was nothing he could do for them, by his own life, Sam would not allow anything to befall Frodo.

Hobbits as a folk generally did not get lost in a forest easily, and proudly attested to the fact. But this one seemed to be doing everything in its power to thwart Frodo and Sam's sense of direction. The trees were so dense any distinguishing feature was lost in the similar appearance of another, and even Sam, whose sense of orientation had been solid enough to know they walked in circles before, couldn't fathom where they were. They had no idea of the passage of time save for the increasing weariness in their feet, seeing as it was a long time since they had sighted the sun last, and light seemed to constantly penetrate the trees at a muted level, casting everything in the same confusing dark green hues.

Boromir felt decidedly edgier as the hours passed. The initial embarrassment at being so – he had to accept it:_ lost_ – had elevated itself from anger to anxiety. There really should have been some change somewhere, some break in the trees to grant him a better feeling for home. Yes, they were still many, many leagues from Minas Tirith, but he had hoped that as they traversed the land, his instinct would pull him home. When he found it was not so, he began to feel more than a little concerned…

He cursed the density of the forest with renewed passion when it successfully funnelled them into a rocky cleft without his realising. The scent of damp rock and moss was more an invasion than something he welcomed, and he certainly did not like the way the formation bent round a blind corner, dipping deeper into the lull in the land and further from the light. No sound emitted from this place, and even the chortling of the magpies that he knew harassed each other in the trees above did not reach into it. He didn't like it.

Boromir backed out in an attempt to sight a better route, but now that he really looked at their surroundings, he saw that the forest had been working them into this situation for longer than he realised, their path flanked by insurmountably steep inclines formerly concealed by the heavily wooded area. Trees grew at exaggerated angles from the slopes, but his fresh memory of the night before encouraged him to always take the easier route when it came to such severe gradients.

Boromir felt their eyes on him. Frodo and Sam stood away from the entrance to the rocky conduit, eyeing it suspiciously and looking askance at him. There was no way he could appear weak in their eyes by turning back now, and so the son of Gondor drew a steadying breath, and ignored the uncomfortable run of apprehension down his neck and arms as he strode determinedly past them into the grinning dark.

He walked with determined aggression down the narrow walkway, filling his stride with an unwavering confidence he did not feel. When he neared the bend, he stopped with the need to see where his charges were, fully turning his back and openly proving his mettle to the dark twists and concealing shadows and doggedly ignoring the way the hairs on the back of his neck bristled. To his increasing irritation, they were far too many paces behind him for his liking. "Frodo! Sam! Keep up!" He waited until they were little more than a few feet away before he continued…

Boromir nearly collided with the grey figure blocking the path.

A cry of surprise released itself from his throat before he could think to bite it back. The immediate thought that ran rampant through his mind was that this was some kind of guarding spectre, and his soldiers' reflex drew his sword and threw his weight behind it, bringing it up and round in an unrestrained fright-fuelled level of might.

A shout came from under the spectre's deep hood as a knife flashed out of the concealing cloak and deflected Boromir's sword. He reeled with momentary shock that he met with resistance, but he recovered, coming again and again with the hammering of steel on steel, forcing the figure deeper into the cleft, away from them, away from the Ring -

"Law! Farn, Boromir, sîdh – daro! _DARO_!"

The thing knew his name. Fear bellowed through his chest and propelled his sword swings to new heights of ferocity.

What were recognisable as curses in any tongue flew from the grey figure as they backed further from his sword's edge, glancing another blow and successfully stumbling far enough to put a moment's pause between them and Boromir. "STAY YOUR SWORD!" The knife flicked upwards, catching the hood and flinging it back…

It was Boromir's turn to back away. His sword fell uselessly to the ground, and he lost the power to talk, or even to blink. For a moment, he thought his heart had given out and he fully expected to join his blade in the carpet of dead leaves. But when it remembered to beat painfully again, he tried to take stock of what he was seeing, even though he did not for a moment believe it possible.

For the first time since the night before, Frodo and Sam joined him at his side. The power of speech may have fled him, but it did not abandon the hobbits. Sam passed Boromir by as he would any inconvenient obstacle, his face alight with a flame of stunned joy. "_Legolas_!"

So he _wasn't_ going mad: it really was Legolas. Well, him or his ghost, anyway. Looking at him, had Boromir not met his sword with the elf's knife and found solid resistance in it, he would have maintained that this was Legolas' dead spirit, for he had never thought an elf – or anyone else, for that matter – could look so utterly terrible…

Under the deep scratches and bruising on his face, Legolas' skin had lost its former radiance, even by the reasoning of the poor light. His normally neat flaxen hair hung in a tangled mess over his shoulders and was full of dirt and detritus from the river, one side streaked garishly red from the deep split high on his right temple. Dried blood marred his pale complexion from where it had coursed down the side of his face from his crown, joining with other such stains from smaller scratches and cuts on his cheeks. There was something else to his dulled eyes as he looked on them all, something Boromir could not quite pin down, and the formerly perfect skin surrounding their dimmed light was laced with fine stress lines he would never have thought an elf could gain.

Probably the most striking thing Boromir noticed, however, was that he was completely devoid of weaponry: only now did he realise that the knife held flat against his left wrist was a hunting knife not dissimilar to the one gifted to Aragorn in Lothlórien, small and quick, but not a blade designed to be used against something as large as a sword. No quiver adorned his back, the straps employed instead in immobilising his right arm and keeping it tightly bound to his chest, the grey cloak of his brethren securely wrapped about his body more like a shield behind which he could hide.

"We thought we'd lost you," Frodo breathed, the relief and happiness shimmering in his eyes lending his voice the same note. "We thought you'd died."

Legolas smiled, though the gesture was bridled to little more than a twitch of his lips as the action strained at his heavily bruised and split cheek. "I have to say I'm a little surprised to be here myself." There was something brittle to his usually melodic voice, a new and unfitting edge.

All Boromir's hopes and aspirations, gone with a sorry sigh at the resurrection of one whom was meant to be dead. Never would he say that he ever wished for the elf to die, no matter how severe their differences … but his reappearance was more than an inconvenience. His plan of getting the Ring to Minas Tirith passed into little more than a smoky memory, split asunder by the grey ghost barring his path…

A little too late, Boromir realised he had not greeted the elf back to their fold with Frodo and Sam, feeling the numbed surprise in his own unsmiling face and knowing how it must look. He contorted his mouth into what he hoped was a welcoming smile. "Legolas," he said, with a breathy if slightly disbelieving laugh. "It is good to see you back." He flinched inwardly, hoping the false edge he heard in his own tone was not so clear to the others, and proffered his hand for the elf to shake in a hasty effort to cover it. Legolas gave the offering a quick look, but did not take it. Instead, he dipped his head in a shallow and very stiff bow, his dark blue eyes fixed to Boromir's with that old piercing quality he found so unnerving.

Boromir lowered his hand awkwardly, realising too late that shaking hands would be difficult when Legolas' was so bound to his chest. "You have injured your arm?" he asked in an attempt to bridge the odd silence that had managed to push its way between them.

Legolas sighed, breaking the weighted eye contact and looking resentfully down at the fettered limb. "No: my shoulder is broken. I haven't broken a shoulder before, and I'm finding it somewhat irritating," he added with clearly false brightness, attempting to lighten the gravity of his situation and making a poor job of it. He sighed again. "In truth, I feel like I've lost a fight with a troll." He tried for a smile, but it failed to touch his eyes, and understandably so … what good was an archer with a broken shoulder? _Mind you, what good is an archer without a bow?_ Boromir noted to himself.

"You _look_ like you lost a fight against five," Boromir remarked.

Legolas chose not to deign him with a retort, but his marked silence was gratifying enough.

"Well," Frodo said, his open and happy grin still pinned to his face, "if your only serious hurt is a broken shoulder after all that happened, I think you can safely say you're lucky."

Boromir caught the most fleeting flash of astonishment in the elf's eyes, though the reason for it fell beyond his grasp. Before he could make anything of it, Legolas smoothed his face and continued as though nothing had happened. "I suppose you could call it luck… Though I think my shoulder is a little less inclined to agree with you." He smiled again, but Boromir could not help but think the expression was somehow shadowed, and his eyes narrowed in contemplation at their elven companion. For someone with such measured composure, such a revelation – no matter how brief – was massively betraying. It had been no more than a momentary slip, but it was a slip nonetheless, and Boromir's sense of intrigue was fully awakened. Was there a darker reason behind that flit of surprise?

"I have to say I'm amazed you found us," he stated. "How you managed something like that in your state is beyond me."

"A troll's passage is less conspicuous," Legolas stated cuttingly. He completely ignored the clench of Boromir's jaw at his words as he continued: "I found your tracks not far from where I escaped the river, and the fact that all you've done is travel in one massive circle all day certainly helped." Then: "Where, exactly, were you under the impression you were going?"

"Boromir's taking us to Minas Tirith," Sam blurted, before Boromir could answer.

The elf's eyes narrowed, just a little, as they came to Boromir again. The man thought the elf might make an issue of it when he maintained the stare, and he prepared to defend himself, feeling his back straighten involuntarily as his attitude switched to defensive. But Legolas caught him completely off balance…

"A little lost, aren't you?"

Boromir's already burnt pride suffered another searing at the scornful observation. "And _you_ know these forests better, do you?" he demanded, an edge of resentment creeping into his voice at the mockery in the elf's words. All the reasons why he and Legolas had a difficult relationship were beginning to arise in his memory; clearly, nearly dying hadn't affected the elf's superior attitude.

Legolas succeeded in further putting Boromir's back up when he gave him a somewhat pitying look, the kind that might be given to one regarded as a little slow. "I do not have to know them. I am a Wood-elf. We do not get lost in forests." He paused, carefully considering Boromir and the cold glare he was being given before he offered his attention to Frodo. "This is not the agreed path," he stated bluntly. "But, if your wish is to go to Minas Tirith, I will support you in your decision." Another fleeting glance at Boromir… "Or, we can try and locate the others. As the Ringbearer, the choice is yours alone to make."

Boromir gritted his teeth at the thinly veiled dig. "Where else are you going to get the provisions needed-"

"This is Frodo's burden, it's his decision," Legolas cut in sharply. "Let him make it." The elf's eyes shimmered an unmistakable warning the Gondorian's way to keep his silence. Though Boromir seethed under their hard instruction, he found his jaw firmly biting down any further input he could think to make.

"I can understand why Boromir's city would be a good place to come from…" The hobbit paused uncertainly, looking between the expressions of tense hope and cool composure. He knew too well of the battle of wills being fought before him, two strong figures, pillars of strength and leadership for their own people and equally valued in the Fellowship, vying for command. Through sheer force of nature, Legolas seemed to be the current lead. His belief in what they did was solid. There was no doubt in his heart that Legolas would lead them to the surest path and do explicitly as Frodo asked. If he went to Minas Tirith as Boromir recommended but with Legolas at his side, he would want to rely on the elf's strong nature should things go awry … but there was something very different about Legolas since his return, something wrong that the hobbit detected under his flippant air, and that worried him.

Unsure, Frodo finally turned to his friend. Sam's green eyes stated quite clearly what choice he thought to be the right one. To Frodo's relief, he evidently concurred with the course he himself believed to be correct. "We should look for the others. Can you lead us out of here?" he asked Legolas directly.

Legolas gave him the first true smile he had managed since their meeting and dipped his golden head at the request. Without further pause, Legolas indicated the direction in which they needed to go with a wordless and meaningful look over their shoulders. Frodo and Sam followed his advice, only too happy to be leaving the crevice behind.

Before the elf could move out to lead, however, Boromir came tight to his side. "You know this course to be folly," he hissed in Legolas' ear. "This is foolishness! We should strike out from a place of strength, not skulk from the Wilds like tattered vagabonds! You're encouraging him to be weak by making the poorer choice sound more appealing."

Those sharp blue eyes fixed unwaveringly with Boromir's, narrowed and penetrating. "And the Ring would leave your city again, would it?" he bit back. "Your intentions are shamefully clear, Boromir – have some sense of honour and at least _try_ to conceal your desires!" He shook his head. "Whether you would desire it or no, this is the path, and it must be walked."

"That's easy enough for you to say!" Boromir spat hotly.

Legolas issued a shallow sigh, a weary and oddly forlorn sound. "No, it really isn't. Not at all." He said no more and left Boromir's side, his steps strangely careful and measured as he took up the lead on the road he deemed they should take. The hobbits offered Boromir only a fleeting glance before going after the elf, having to trot a little to catch up. It stung him to see them match Legolas' speed so readily, walking gladly beside him with no encouragement. But he would not be left alone, no matter what his grievance… Shouldering his shield a bit higher, Boromir followed, bringing up the rear of their small company.

-(())-

The smell was too alluring for them to ignore, tantalising them with heady promises as it drifted on the wind. By their nature, they were pulled to the source of it, and none but the greatest of wills were capable of denying its power.

Lurtz surveyed his warriors reduced to their most base impulses as they scoured the rocky shore. They were nearly maddened by the discovery of the scent, small skirmishes breaking between them when they crossed each other too closely in their search. It pleased him endlessly to see the bloodlust burning in their eyes and tempers. He had to reign himself in from stooping to their level: as commander, it would not do for him to scramble about in desperate lust with his subordinates.

He knew Uglúk joined him from behind … he recognised the smell of barely restrained hunger on his second's breath.

"We are close."

"Yessir: an elf was said to be with them, and the traces of halflings are undeniable. They're no more than a day ahead of us. We'll have them on the morrow."

Lurtz grinned darkly. "We will succeed where the Winged Ones have failed. I look forward to it."

Just by the river, several of his warriors dipped their hands into a dark pool and licked the thickening substance from their skin with licentious relish. Elf blood was a rarity: the filthy source must be badly wounded to have left so much behind him. "Oh yes, I definitely look forward to it. Give the order to move out."

-(())-

The light was failing rapidly when the trees eventually thinned and finally revealed the not too-distant curve of silver that was the Anduin. The wind picked at the mist of sweat on his brow, finding its way through his cloak to prod mercilessly at him with relentless and cold fingers. His feet halted without his real intention, but he found no will within himself to force them to continue. He drew as steadying a breath as he was able without allowing it to tremble, fighting against the waves of nausea that were fast becoming constant and unwanted companions. Legolas closed his eyes and concentrated on centring himself above his discomfort, clenching his jaw against the increasing assaults of sickness and pain. It was a trick he had been employing all day, but its effect was beginning to fail him.

Legolas could go no further.

"Well, you did it."

He started at the voice by his ear, jolting his body too harshly and only just succeeding in biting back any display of pain. His eyes alighted on Boromir beside him, the man watching him with a trace of suspicion creasing his brow. From the tone of his voice, his sour mood seemed to have resigned itself to more of a background growl. Even though it was merely diminished rather than completely abolished, it made him far more amiable in Legolas' view.

"I said I would." Legolas inwardly shied from the strain he heard in his own words. Perhaps a little too quickly, he added: "I think here is as good a place as any to call it a night."

Boromir's brow peaked on one side. "I would have thought you'd want to continue to the river: you look like you need the water."

His brow flashed hot and cold. Legolas barely suppressed the sudden urge to shiver. "The river will still be there in the morning. Besides," he added, hoping to highlight something other than himself. "The hobbits are weary. It is only fair to s… to stop…" His field of vision blackened at the edges, his splitting head becoming fogged. _Ai, Eru. Please, not now. Not now…_ There was nothing more he could do than still himself, shutting his eyes to the world in an effort to stop it spinning. Mercifully, the sensation abated almost as quickly as it struck, but his fury with himself that he had displayed such blatant weakness in front of one he did not trust was boundless.

"…alright, Legolas?"

"Yes! I am fine!" The short impatience that took over his voice was unintended, but it had worked its way in all the same. Legolas had never been very good at dealing with pain. It made his temper quick and his wit hard, and woe betide any who dared cross him. But for once, Boromir had done nothing to merit his anger. "Sorry … my shoulder aches, and my temper is a little sour for it." It was only a partial truth, but certainly not a lie.

When he chanced a look at Boromir again, the man was regarding him with the same thinly veiled suspicion of earlier, but he made no comment on it. "Very well … I suppose here is as good a place as any," he conceded slowly. He threw his shield down and moved off to gather firewood, giving Legolas one final look before he set out.

The elf drew as deep a breath as he dared through his nose, savouring the scents of woodland coming to night. No matter where he was, if he closed his eyes, the aroma of trees could always guide his mind back to better times in his homeland. Regardless of how many millennia had gone by, the smell of trees was a reliable constant, and he could return to long ago, way before obliterating wars and soulless dark lords destroyed his own simple happiness. If he thought on it, it made his heart heavy when he realised that he had been little more than a child the last time he had known real peace, not only of the land, but the heart…

His eyes lifted to the lofty boughs, stark against the deep violet sky. Being so vulnerable and bound to the earth pitched undeniable fear in his heart. The yearning to ascend into their safer heights was almost a pain in itself … he saw it as a cruel joke that he was surrounded by the trees that could give him solace when he pined for it so strongly, yet he could not climb to the lowest branch. All he could do was draw from the deeper peace the trees invoked in the world and hope it was enough…

Frodo and Sam were practically overjoyed to hear Legolas suggest stopping for the night. Though Legolas never forced them to move at speed on their journey through the heavier woodland, he did not allow them to take any rest, and Sam wasted no time in setting a small fire for the promised firewood. It wasn't especially big, and he didn't construct it to be particularly strong, but it chased the strengthening shadows back into their holes, and soon enough all of them were gathered around its chattering mirth. Whilst the hobbits and Boromir made themselves as comfortable as possible on the leaf floor and broke a portion of _lembas_ between them, Legolas remained standing, his head turned a little away from them and eyes distracted, of their company but most definitely apart. He rested his weight entirely on his right leg, merely using the toe of his left boot as a balance, left arm crossed over with his hand cupping his immobilised elbow. His entire demeanour was as inapproachable as it was possible to be, his posture stating quite plainly that he wanted to be left alone. Frodo wished more than anything to have the courage to cross that barrier, but he could not bring himself to do it.

Though he ached to convey his gratitude to him, Frodo felt he did not possess words strong enough to offer his thanks. That he had been so willing to forfeit his immortality for him was a concept the hobbit struggled to get his head around, and he was painfully reminded of it every time he glanced at the elf's injured face and bound arm. If that was what his face had suffered, who knew what his body had gone through. Frodo felt the razor edge of guilt eat into his conscience. From what felt like an eternity ago, he recalled the words of Boromir nestled in the memory of mud and rain and terror: "_He has accepted this as his oath: you must accept it too._" If this was what the Fellowship meant, he did not want it, not any more. He didn't want anyone putting themselves at such extreme risk for his sake, and the thought was there - not for the first time - that he should simply rise in the night and flee -

"Would you like some, Frodo?"

Frodo roused himself from his silent contemplation to regard the palm filled with some kind of berry Sam proffered to him. He didn't recognise them, and he felt more than a little surprised to see Sam happily popping them into his mouth.

"What are they?" he asked, sceptical that they should be eaten in the first place.

"Nothin' poisonous, if that's what you mean," Sam said reassuringly around a mouthful of pips. "Boromir says they're safe, and he's been eatin' them often enough. They're a bit on the sharp side, and you've to mind your teeth on the pips, but they've a nice taste under it all. Make a good crumble with some decent raspberries, I reckon."

Frodo smiled affectionately at his friend. The sheer joy in Sam's eyes at finding a new food was a welcome distraction: no matter what was happening in the world, Samwise Gamgee would find at least temporary contentment in the discovery of something edible. "I think I'll pass, if that is alright by you. Though I think I'm about ready to sleep."

Sam shrugged a shoulder and threw his offering into his own mouth, giving Frodo something of a bulging smile.

"Now there's a fine idea if ever one was dreamed." Boromir stood and stretched broadly. But realisation disrupted his happiness at the prospect of sleep, and with a resigned huff, he put himself forward for first watch.

For the first time in the hours they had been settled, Legolas broke his silence, turning his golden head to the light of the fire. "Don't trouble yourself: I will take the watch."

Boromir gave him a measured look, marking to himself how much worse the cuts and bruising marring the elf's skin seemed to be in the firelight. "Do you not think you would be better off resting?"

The elf gave a harsh bark of laughter, a mirthless and hollow sound. "If my shoulder would grant me the peace, I might take you up on the offer. As it stands, I don't think I could if I tried. I'll take first watch," he reasserted. Before any further argument could be broached, he distanced himself from the fire and his companions, positioning himself in the sheltering company of one of the more majestic beeches. His hand ghosted over the silvered bark in a request for permission, and when he felt no outward malice as he had done from other trees in this forest, he settled himself with care into the bowl. The warped contours of the trunk presented his back with an easier support than any younger tree would have been able to offer, and Legolas eased himself against it, finding the least pained area on which to lean.

He felt a shadow of annoyance at Boromir's approach.

The man seated himself beside him with a dull thud, completely bereft of any measure of grace or attempt at stealth. Legolas kept his irritation at the unwanted intrusion to himself, choosing to demonstrate it with a silence that was just as vocal. Clearly, the man had wished to speak with him, but his stony quiet evidently made him begin to think better of it … but he decided that he had made the effort to come over, and he was not going to allow Legolas' unwelcoming attitude to push him back. "I know what you think of me:"

Silence.

"I merely wish for you to understand that I am not a bad man…" He paused, again awaiting some form of input that was never going to come. "My people are failing. Mordor's stain is ingrained in their hearts. The only way they can ever hope to be free is if we can crush the enemy where he festers." Again, he looked for some reaction, but Legolas' gaze was centred in the dark of the trees. Boromir finally elected to leave, angered by the wall of silence and deciding he was better off in the warmth of the fireside than the cold of Legolas' company. "You need to understand that I fight to restore Gondor to its true glory. I would see her shine again before I leave this earth." He rose stiffly with the chill sitting on the ground had instilled in his bones, and just as he was taking his leave:

"No," Legolas contradicted.

Boromir stopped dead, looking over his shoulder at the elf in befuddlement. "I'm sorry?"

"You fight to attain an ideology. You have no idea what Gondor looks like in peace time, or what her people do, or how her lands deal with the quiet." Legolas gave a humourless buck of a laugh to the night, not deigning to take his sight from the night he observed so closely. "Even for me, it's almost a foreign concept. I'm old enough to have experienced it, but young enough for it to be little more than a distant memory…" He looked on Boromir for the first time since his arrival, his eyes bright and seeing in the blinding dark. "But I am forced to wonder, Boromir, if you, a man who prefers the crude company of the mess room to the quiet order of his father's halls, would like peace if ever you come to experience it?"

Boromir's body jerked to face Legolas' way, his eyes wide and more than a little affronted. "Do you mean to say that you think I do not wish for peace for my people?" he demanded sharply.

"On the contrary," Legolas rejoined smoothly. "I believe it is your greatest desire. I also believe that you will sacrifice the life you love to achieve it, and that is a very noble end." Legolas shifted, adjusting his position against his tree with the ghost of a grimace lining his face. He cast Boromir a fleeting glance and had the good grace to appear a little embarrassed. "Aragorn tells me I can be a little too astute at times. Please forgive me if I spoke out of term."

Boromir shook his head, surprising himself with the resigned smile gracing his lips. "I am beginning to see that it is something you cannot help; t'is probably better to ask Sam not to eat than to expect you to know when to hold your tongue."

Legolas gave an amused snort and turned his attention back to the night-cloaked wilds. "Perhaps…"

"Strange," Boromir murmured. When he failed to expand on his half-statement, Legolas knew he was expected to enquire. He was in no real mood to entertain the conversational wiles of humans at that moment, but conceded to rise to the bait for diplomacy's sake. "Strange?"

"All these months, I've hardly witnessed you sit for five minutes. Since your return, you suddenly favour taking a watch sitting on your backside."

"Falling from cliffs is somewhat taxing. I do not suggest you try it." Legolas was tired. So, so tired… Even maintaining his less than chipper demeanour was difficult, and he needed the rest more than he could stand to think about. Increasing weariness with Boromir's company coupled with his unending pain was starting to feather annoyance through his mood. The man evidently heard the finalising note in Legolas' tone as he turned his back to leave.

"Aragorn will never allow your people to fail, Boromir. Remember that."

Boromir paused. "I fail to understand why an elf concerns himself so deeply with the affairs of men."

"I have my reasons," Legolas replied darkly. Then: "Aragorn wields the true power in this war, not some gold trinket."

The man snorted, the sound peppered with distain. "You look at him with the same foolish adoration a beggar gives a lord's banquet." He turned his back again for the fire…

"Well, it determines the greatness of the lord that he allows the fool to eat of the table then, doesn't it?"

Boromir frowned heavily at his companion's dry response and looked back again, but Legolas' attention was returned to the quiet night and apparently uninterested in any further interaction. Well, that was fine with Boromir: he wished to rest, and keeping Legolas' uneven company did not suit his idea of resting all that well…

He listened intently to the temporary chaos of Boromir's movements as the man made ready for sleep, hearing him jostle the fading embers of the fire with fresh wood before he finally settled. The forest and Legolas alike welcomed his eventual silence, and found a fresh peace as his breathing deepened, joining their short charges in sleep.

Legolas shuffled carefully, flexing his left knee a little higher and stretching out his right leg. The slightly scrunched position eased the stress on his injured abdomen, yet it was no more than a paltry level of relief, hardly worth the effort it had taken to gain it. His free hand pulled at the cloak, enshrouding himself a bit deeper in its warming embrace. Despite his efforts, the chill still bit down on him, and the strain of stopping himself shivering was beginning to pull on his back. He refused to look at it … he did not need the pain of aggravating his side with poking and prodding to know he was not healing: the unrestrained agony and constant heat of new blood was enough.

The openly trembling breath he released now there were none to witness it twisted away from him in an uncertain whisper. He battled to push his fear down, but it would not be quelled. It kept resurfacing, dragging its nails over his failing resolve and rendering it as damaged and vulnerable as his body. If he did not heal, if the wound did not cease bleeding, there was a very real chance he could die from it.

His eyes drew themselves away from his troubled world to the heavens. Drops of ice glistened in shards of purity far surpassing anything he had yet seen on earth, immobilised in a silence so beautiful it felt a crime to breathe. Their persistent strength brought a touch of peace to him, and Legolas forgot, just for the most fleeting of moments, what it was to feel so hounded by worries and constant agony. But that one moment, no matter how brief, was worth more to him than all the jewels of the earth.

He continued to watch, even as thin cloud shadows hounded the piercing lights into a deeper silence, one that barred the sight of one lone elf and left him susceptible to his own darkness again.

Another fleeting glance at his companions. Their stillness was all he needed. Legolas lifted his voice to the stars in a keening offering, and though they slept, his companions found a new and deeper level of rest, and even the most troubled of hearts was able to relinquish its fears to the peace of the night.

TRANSLATIONS

"Law! Farn, Boromir, sîdh - daro! DARO!" - "Don't! Enough, Boromir, peace – stop! STOP!"


	13. Chapter Thirteen: Revelations

Chapter Thirteen: Revelations

_First light_

His fingers lighted on the mark. To any other, it might be indistinguishable, a slight shifting in the dirt caused by little more than the natural cycles of the earth. Minute. Unimportant and completely inconsequential in the workings of the forest. A touch more pressure caused gritty grains to crumble from the edges against his skin from the walls of the indent, and he knew more: to Aragorn, it was a beacon that he knew well, having traced such effects on the land before. It told him much … which foot had made it, and at what speed. It told him that the maker was stepping heavier than was normal for him and moved only with hard determination. Legolas' track held a deliberate direction, though, and the reasoning behind that was lost on Aragorn. But reasoning was not something Aragorn counted as consequential at that particular juncture…

Aragorn had waited for the greying of the sky with an edgy height of impatience. His return to the camp that night was brief, declaring his intent to take watch without leaving room for argument. Gimli was particularly vocal against the decision, trying – and failing – to impose his disapproval on the ranger's conscience with accusations of self-annihilation through sheer bloody-mindedness. Aragorn blanked him, taking some hot water for tea and leaving their company for the solitude of the trees.

The ranger had spent the night tracking the passage of the sky, watching the gradual change within its scape and wondering at how oddly dwarfed those tiny stabs of light made him feel. But they did not burn away the hours as brilliantly as they burned themselves. No matter how hard he willed it, dawn did not rush to meet his desires, and when light finally ceded defeat and leaked into the east and drained to the forest floor in the dimmest of intensities, Aragorn rushed on the camp and harried his sleeping companions into wakefulness.

Legolas' trail led them into a deeper part of the forest, so dense it seemed as though it was trying to shadow Mirkwood's darkened heart. The hunt became less positive for a time when the tracks ebbed to nothing more than a rumour of elven passage. Tracking ghosts was probably easier…

"So," began Pippin as he sidled up to Gimli, once again discontent with the heavy silence Aragorn's own quiet invoked in the group as they followed his stoop-headed form. "Do all dwarves have beards?"

"'Do all dwarves have beards?' Ha! Do all elves have freak ears?" He chortled to himself at his own quip, until he glanced the hobbit's way and noted the polite yet vaguely confused crease in his brow, and realised a little too late that his young companion – like the rest of his kind – sported an exaggerated version of said auricles. Gimli cleared his throat at his social stumble, even if Pippin had not noticed. "Yes, all dwarf men have beards," he reiterated more sedately.

"But whatever for? Don't they get in your way?"

Gimli puffed out his chest, his stride becoming a shot more prideful. "They most certainly do _not_: a dwarf's beard is an earned symbol of his rank and battle prowess. None but the finest warriors can sport a beard as opulent as mine." He flung an annoyed dagger of a glare at the ranger's back following his hardly concealed snort.

"Oh," said Pippin. "We hobbits don't grow beards." He was quiet for a time, contemplating what deeds would earn one the right to have a beard. Then: "Hey, Merry."

"What, Pip?" Merry kept his pace just behind Gimli, nervous of being out from the main body of the group, as he was constantly reminded by his still hurting throat of the perils of being away from sharp blades and those with the power to use them.

"Didn't your Gran Brandybuck have a beard?"

"She did," Merry agreed without a shadow of hesitation. "She used to brush it for special occasions and on every fourth Wednesday. We used to call it Parsnip."

"Really?" Gimli asked, overcoming his surprise that a hobbit female could have such a spectacular portion of facial hair. "You gave your grandmother's beard an affectionate name?"

"No," Merry sighed. "We called it Parsnip because whenever she had parsnips, there were always pieces stuck in it."

Gimli's appreciation for Merry's grandmother dropped slightly with the revelation … women with beards: absolutely. But the idea of women with beards with food stuck in them was not nearly so appealing to him…

As much as it amused Aragorn to hear tales of bearded hobbits, his concentration tried to blank the conversation and focus his attention on his pressing task. Legolas' slight disturbing of the leaf carpet brimmed a deep and very dark gorge-like cleft in the land, probably etched by the run of a substantial river many ages ago. Though the forest had reclaimed it, the river had bitten deep, until the earth had given way to its eroding passage and revealed rock instead…

In a surprise move, Legolas' trail negotiated the heavy gradient of the gorge side, travelling down a route that a healthy elf might consider childishly easy. Even so, it was treacherous under mortal feet, and it took the utmost concentration from them to work their way down with no incident.

Aragorn stopped in surprise when the elf's trail disappeared in the narrow mouth of the crevice. The place was dark and distinctly unwelcoming … but the thing that puzzled him most was the fact that the towering sides nearly met at the top. This passage was more tunnel than open crevice, and it troubled him that Legolas, an elf who shared fear of such confining spaces with the rest of his kin, should think to venture through it. But there had been Moria and the pitch darkness there, deeper in the earth than even _he_ ever wanted to pass, and though he knew Legolas' fear had quaked just beneath his calm exterior, his experience had apparently shored up his courage against such places.

"He went in there?"

Merry's voice, just behind him. Aragorn merely nodded, eyeing the narrow passage only a moment longer before he followed the ghost of his friend's footsteps. For all the heavy squelching of hobbit and dwarf feet in the mud and detritus behind him, Legolas' marks were still shy of being distinguished imprints. Aragorn's shoulders snagged on the sloping stone walls. He angled them inward, but the action only just kept them clear. Moria or no, he was definitely surprised that Legolas had tolerated the tight confines so willingly. The passage kept him stooped for quite a time, shrouding them in murky dark for what felt like a posture-altering age before the crevice floor dipped away from them, and the walls parted enough for taller shoulders. Aragorn cracked as he straightened, flexing his cramped shoulders stiffly. The walls bent sharply towards the brighter slant of reluctant light at the end.

And then there was the answer to the riddle.

Aragorn stopped so abruptly the others nearly shunted into his back. Gimli fired a hot curse from the rear of the group at nearly falling over a hobbit, but Aragorn paid him no heed as he sat on his haunches. Deeper marks, defined and clearly Legolas', retreating into the darkness in staggered steps, as though he had been harried back by something. Aragorn's heart skipped at this new and frightening evidence, and his eyes quickly read more, inviting his fingers to touch the prints and gain a higher sense of their meaning. He pressed on, staying close to the floor, and made a discovery that made him blink in surprise.

Weighty prints, deeper in the mire than even Legolas' more flighty tracks, wide apart and deliberate like an attacking warrior. He pursued them a little further and found the point where they had been lighter and jumped back, a man surprised. And he knew to whom they belonged. Aragorn straightened in disbelief, turning to look beyond the heads of his bewildered companions. Yes, it would make sense: the point where Legolas' prints went back were just aft of the bend. Boromir, clearly startled, had fought him back. It did not surprise Aragorn that Boromir had been alarmed: Legolas was quieter than a ghost at the best of times, and seeing him emerge round the blind corner must have nearly given the Gondorian heart failure. In fact, seeing the elf himself must have made his head reel and think it was a ghost he faced.

"They were here," he stated, the thrill of excitement in his chest welling into his voice when he sighted the broad and clearly toed imprints of two hobbits just beyond.

"'They'?"

"The others…" He pursued the tracks beyond the confusion of the restrictive stone and out into the open forest, where everything became more definite. He understood now that he could see them more clearly. Legolas had tracked the others, just as Aragorn tracked him: his sharp eyesight had allowed him to tread the easier path whilst observing the tracks from a distance. No wonder Aragorn had not spotted them himself…

The heavier traces of hobbit and man alike went back on themselves for a few feet before changing course, crushing the more birdlike tracks of his elven friend. Wherever it was they were going, Legolas was leading them there. Aragorn knew without a doubt what the elf had discovered when he encountered the group. Somehow, Legolas had gained leadership: technically, as Aragorn's second and of high birth himself, the role should naturally fall to him. But Boromir would not have ceded command to him lightly: whatever advantage Legolas held, he must have played it very carefully.

"So, does that mean we can find them?" Pippin queried, his tone marked lest his excitement should prove a disappointment to him. "We can find Frodo and Sam? And Legolas and Boromir?"

It saddened Aragorn to hear such reluctant hope in his young companion's voice, but it gave him unending pleasure when he turned to him and smiled, offering a single nod. "These tracks are not old. It won't be long before we are with them."

Pippin and Merry's faces jointly reached to something closely resembling their usual brightness, and Aragorn found himself giving them the first true smile in far too long. Yes, things were finally beginning to take on a more favourable light…

His smile dropped.

Crashing armour, clamouring over the jarring impact of heavy-clad feet in mass, the guttural and terrible bellows of creatures little more than beasts spitting from the crevice entrance. They were coming, so fast, the noise accelerating right for them –

_We are found! _"Hide yourselves!" Aragorn's fist wrapped itself in the cloak of a frozen hobbit – he did not know which – and swung the stunned creature before himself, forcing him into a run for the cover of the trees.

Getting closer, closer, _closer_ –

Aragorn hauled Merry behind one of the more thickset beeches they reached away from the path, pressing tight against the trunk and enveloping both of them with his cloak. The press of cold and ready steel against his thigh was a thin comfort when he knew so many were coming. Merry's heartbeat yammered against Aragorn's stomach so hard he feared it would give them away, but he dared not move as the crevice started to vomit the vile filth into their side of the forest.

To the monstrosities flooding the forest floor as they disgorged themselves into the open, there was nothing obvious to their sharp eyes that they were being watched. But a silver eye observed them with a careful stillness from the concealing shadow of a deep hood. The ranger watched them seethe through the open with a disturbed burn in hollow of his chest. These were new, these creatures: tall and straight, grotesquely intelligent in the face and abhorrently muscled in the body, moving unhindered by the rising sun._ "Seldom do orcs journey in the open, under the sun, yet these have done so! You are being followed."_ Lord Celeborn's warning to him less than a week ago echoed with the hateful pounding of their feet. They were in trouble.

No matter how great his skills of hiding were, Aragorn had to quell his revulsion lest they scent it on the air. But then, it struck him as odd that they did not pause as they emptied into the open, that they did not notice the tracks leading to their hiding places that were so painfully clear to his eyes. It was bizarre…

Realisation plunged ice water through his entirety, and he _knew_. Aragorn knew, and it sickened him.

Only when the weak early light swallowed the last of the Uruks from view did they leave their places. What was once fresh morning air hung with their passing stink, marred beyond salvage. Aragorn barely knew how to draw breath for the fear tightening his chest. His eyes drifted down to the crushed leaves at his feet, where not minutes before, he had read the passage of their companions.

Gimli joined his side, his stocky frame still ridged with the expectation of battle, axe primed in his fists. "Well, at least that proved your luck's returning! I thought we were good as dead!" When his words enticed no response, he lifted his beetling eyes to his taller companion. It unnerved him to witness the clear fear pulling his strong friend's face taught. "Laddie?"

Aragorn shook his head to himself, dismayed and sickened by the revulsion of his own enlightenment. Need drove his legs into a run after the hated beasts, forcing the others to follow in bewilderment. "They weren't hunting us: they were hunting the others," he informed them tightly, propelling his run into something faster and pushing the hobbits already. But the pace the Uruks set was too high for the hobbits to maintain, and he knew in his gut that they could not possibly get there in time. _I beg of you_, he silently pleaded of the Valar. _I beg you, let him have his wits about him. Let him know they come. _"They're following Legolas' blood."

-(())-

_Mid-morning_

"_ERU'S BLOOD!_"

Legolas' senses jarred. Alarm jolted his body forward to get him on his feet, only for him to fall back against the tree with an irrepressible and keening wail at the excruciating agony lancing through his side. Legolas spurred his heels through the soil in a fruitless attempt to dissipate the pain, hearing nothing above the erratic panic of his heart and strained roaring of his blood. Fresh warmth spread down his flank and he felt sick to his core at its dangerous heat.

Distantly through the dissonant pained fog in which he was trapped, he knew someone shouted, angered and close. The words were not discernible through the thick blanket of pain, but he registered the shouter. _Boromir. _And he knew, without doubt, that the anger was directed at _him_. His warrior's instinct wished to leave his vulnerable position on the ground, but his agony bridled him too severely to let him get up.

Silence fell. Though it was a relief to be free of the clamour, he did not know if it was a true quiet, or if his senses had failed. Legolas took the lull as an opportunity to collect himself together, consciously trying to master his out of control heartbeat and return himself to something closer to normal…

Then he remembered that he was not alone.

He did not realise his eyes were closed until he had to pry them open. Daylight stung, harsh and young, spearing him with clean and torturous brilliance. The careful mask he had managed to maintain since the previous day was all but ruined, cracked by the tight pain lines spidering about his eyes, and there was nothing he could do to salvage it as he looked up at the figure framed glaringly by the new sun.

Rage radiated from Boromir in stronger waves than heat from a fire, and with those green eyes fixed with such condemnation on Legolas, the elf deduced that he was the sole focus of the man's ire. _He is displeased with me. _He found it utterly absurd that Boromir should think his displeasure would worry him now of all times, and for a fleeting moment, he laughed. The action was quickly replaced with a hiss, and his eyelids clenched down on themselves again.

"Do you think this _fun_?" the Gondorian spat, his anger branding his shaking tone. "I never thought even _your_ arrogance could reach this kind of height!"

"_Arrogance_?" Legolas wrenched his eyes open again. He struggled to coerce them into focusing on the aggravated man. "I confess, Boromir, I have -" The elf gasped and his jaws clamped, biting the rest of his sentence to nothing. Without will to do so, he curled on himself against the new and more intense assault of pain. Hearing was lost to a high whistling in his ears, sudden and terrible light-headedness threatening to banish his senses completely. The support at his back offered by the deep contours of the tree was the only thing keeping his body upright, and for too long, it was simply him, the encroaching darkness, and the pain. Whatever damage had been wrought to his body, he was losing the fight to keep it together. _Breathe_, he counselled himself, recalling the aids he had called upon the previous evening when this frightening ailment had assailed him.

Unlike the previous day, the darkness did not relinquish its hold so easily. It was so much more intense, a yawning gulf ready to swallow him. But his situation did not grant him the luxury of concentrating on his hurt and sickness in favour of blanking Boromir: the man suspected him, and that in itself was terribly dangerous.

Legolas made himself lift his head again and strain his gaze through the black fog at his companion. He was immensely grateful for the sympathetic support of the tree behind him as the forest spun nauseatingly and was rendered in stark hues of purples and greens and reds.

"What is _wrong _with you?"

A demand, not out of concern, but anger, deep and hot and laced with suspicion. Still, it pleased Legolas to know that Boromir was ignorant of the true source of his torment. "Now, _there_ is a question." He chuckled again, and privately decided that the pain was driving him to madness. It amused him to see Boromir's fists furl, and he wondered briefly if he would even remotely feel a strike considering what he was currently experiencing, as another black wave threatened to engulf him.

"Do not toy with me! _Answer_!"

Legolas swallowed, his eyelids drifting closed without his instruction. Opening them was frighteningly difficult. _Lie_. "I hit my shoulder trying to get up." He felt the words resonate within his chest, but they sounded so distant to him…

Those searing green eyes narrowed. "And a broken shoulder is an excuse for sleeping on watch, is it? Have you any idea how late it is?"

_Sleeping?_ A spike of fear edged through his spine. He had been sleeping? To the Fellowship's ignorance, Legolas frequently snatched small pockets of rest whenever the group halted. It did not trouble him to sleep standing, and none save Aragorn recognised the slight glazing of his open eyes as elven sleep. But to sleep out here, on a watch, with his eyes _closed_, that was something else entirely. The new threat cleared his head a little, and he found that the implications frightened him. The fear coupled with his pain and pushed his temper. "I am immortal," he spat viciously, "not infallible! I'd think the rays of perfection brightening your backside would have made you more attentive to the state of the day!" His fit of anger made his head float and the awful colours of the forest to blacken almost to nothing.

Boromir's own temper flared red, blanking his perception of his companion's condition, and he had no control anymore as he lunged with his swinging fist -

"_STOP!_"

Boromir nearly fell avoiding the smaller figure suddenly in the way, barring his access to the elf by putting his own body in line.

Sam held one hand out at Boromir, and shielded his face with the other. His eyes were wide, like he could not quite believe that he was doing something so foolish. "It's not his fault!"

The Gondorian realigned himself and matched Sam's alarmed countenance with unfettered fury. It was testament to the gardener's courage that he did not allow himself to be cowed by such clear ire. "It's not his fault," he repeated a little steadier, staying right where he was with his feet straddling Legolas' legs. "He woke me in the night to swap, and I said I was gettin' up, only I didn't, I went back to sleep. I didn't mean to. He thought I was awake." Sam stopped, giving a quick look over his shoulder into the glazing eyes behind him. It was the most fleeting of looks, but it said much, and Legolas held his silence. The hobbit gave Boromir his attention again, his conviction level and fixed. "The fault's mine; if anyone deserves a whack in the face, it's me."

Legolas stared blearily at the back of his unexpected defender. Sam lied, there was no question of it: it was Legolas' habit to simply not bother rousing anyone else for watch duty, and Boromir knew that. But why in the name of the One had Sam taken it upon himself to protect him? If Boromir had not stayed his hand, the power of the blow would have knocked the hobbit clean out. It was a dangerous situation for one so small to place himself.

Boromir glowered, but he made no attempt to swipe Sam aside. Instead he angled himself around the hobbit, jutting an accusing finger before the elf's face. "Be that as it may," he hissed, "it was _your_ duty to make sure we were guarded. You _failed_, Legolas. You failed in your duty." With that, Boromir straightened and snapped his eyes to Sam's with thinly veiled contempt. He had no words for the hobbit, but the look was enough. Boromir gave his head a final shake, and moved off back to camp.

Legolas watched him go until he was gone from view. He leaned his head back against his tree, turning his eyes to the sky. It was tinged unnaturally purple to him through the dark branches, purple with a too-bright white eye. He sighed heavily through his nose, sealing his eyelids against it and trying to calm the torrents of thought inspired by the confrontation and ease away from the persisting light-headedness.

"Phew. Well, I was pretty sure I was going to get a good knucklin' in the face then!"

He jumped at Sam's voice, not realising the hobbit stayed with him.

"Mind you," Sam continued as he plonked himself down on the leafy ground beside Legolas, "I can hold my own in a fist-up, but they're normally my size, you know?" He smiled and laughed softly at his own quip, but fell to an awkward silence when his elven companion made no remark.

Legolas watched him through his lashes, a contemplative frown pushing at his brow. "Why did you do that, Sam?"

The hobbit shrugged his shoulder, pulling his eyes from the elf's face to focus on the leaf his hands were busy demolishing, ripping it along its veins and letting the freed sections float to his outstretched legs. Though he hid his face, the red flush about his ears was clear enough. "I … it's just…" Sam stopped, feeling a fool for not knowing how to express himself. He maintained the silence until he decided he had his words a bit better formed. "Well, you know… You've done so much for us – especially for Mister Frodo - I've been tryin' to come up with a way to thank you for all you've done, and stoppin' you being hit in the face matched my ideas rather well, I thought." He smiled at the elf again, but the expression faltered when it met only with that keen and penetrating stare.

"I think we both know that is not the entirety of your reasoning, Samwise," Legolas goaded softly. "Why did you tell Boromir I woke you for watch duty?"

The leaves under the hobbit's seat bristled as he shifted uncomfortably. "Because…" he threw Legolas a fleeting look, like he was trying to gauge if he truly wished to know his motive. A sigh brushed his lips, resigned and unhappy. "Because, I saw what happened. That night, with the Wraiths." As though to confirm it, Sam's gaze flitted faultlessly to Legolas' wound, hidden as it was in the security of his cloak.

At the look of alarm on Legolas' face, Sam guessed at his thought and his eyes widened. "I haven't said nothin'!" he said hastily, shaking his head to emphasise the point. "Not even to Frodo: you said you'd just broken your shoulder, so I figured you didn't want anyone knowin'."

Never had he expected such quiet loyalty from a creature he barely knew, and it humbled him. Sam shared everything with Frodo: if he had reservations over any matter, he ran them by Frodo before bringing his concerns to anyone else. For all his bumbling and noise, Sam was a conscientious soul, and he saw to it that anything of importance was highlighted to his master and friend before taking what he saw to be the proper course. For him to have left Frodo in the dark about something so potentially devastating was an incredible deviation from character, and it was purely for Legolas' sake.

Unknowing of Legolas' thoughts, the hobbit continued: "Now, I don't _dislike_ Boromir," he said levelly, "but I can't trust him, and after what he did to you that night -"

Confusion. "'What he did to me'?"

"Yes: leavin' you to fight them Wraiths on your own."

The elf smiled weakly at the statement. "Oh, Sam: the Ulaer cannot be slain. The reason I fought them on my own was so that he could get Frodo out of their reach. There was no choice for me, and none for him." He smiled bitterly to himself. "I truly understand what that means now."

Sam did not understand, but he kept that to himself. "Even so, it seemed an outright cruel thing to do, in my view, and Frodo was real upset by it. We all thought you'd died.

"I couldn't believe it when you showed up yesterday, just like that … I was right worried about what we'd do if we got to Boromir's city, and then lo! You were there, and you took over!" But Sam's apparent joy faded when he fixed his soft eyes on Legolas again, and an odd sadness filled their warmth. "I hate to say it, Legolas, but you look awful poorly, sir. _Awful _poorly. And knowin' full well what's causin' it, and that I can't help, it's…" Silence drifted from him, just as vocal as if he screamed.

But with those crippling words and his stressed silence, Sam confirmed what Legolas had known all along. It was typical of his nature that he had refused to accept the truth his heart knew too well, but the incident with Boromir proved that luxury was no longer afforded to him…

"I cannot be your defender anymore, Sam," Legolas admitted quietly, as much to himself as the hobbit. He leaned his head back again, wanting nothing more than to shutter his eyes against the discordant colours and endless pain. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the hobbit, because what he needed to tell him was important, and the hobbit deserved his fullest attention - no matter how hard it was to give it to him. _I am so tired_… "I'm sorry … so, so sorry, but -"

Panic set itself in the hobbit's eyes, pitifully clear as understanding began to ebb through him. "But Strider will be here soon, he'll find us – he's good at this healing stuff, he can get you back to rights again -"

Legolas gave him an affectionate but resigned smile, shaking his head slowly. "No, Sam. It must be you now, and only you." He licked his lips, hating the burden he was bestowing on the young hobbit. But there was no other choice: this was the way it had to be … never in his life had he imagined that Baerahir's words would be applicable to someone as insignificant to the greater world as a hobbit gardener. "I want you to take Frodo at the earliest opportunity, and leave. Say nothing to me, and certainly nothing to Boromir." He could not contain the shaky groan as a fresh swell of pain threatened to engulf him. His aching teeth clenched against it, and he wondered how long he would have to play this game with death before one of them emerged the victor. A breath, deep as he dared, and he reopened his treacherous eyes to the sunlight. Sam's face was close, worried and helpless.

"Elves are immortal," the hobbit stated, unerringly hitting Legolas' thought. He tried to make it a solid fact in his tone, but his voice buckled with distress at seeing one of the Eldar he so adored in such pain. "This thing can't kill you."

"It can, and it is." Legolas gave a humourless snort. "Immortal, but not infallible, Sam."

The sounds of camp being broken drifted over to them, the clattering of Sam's pots as they were mercilessly thrown against his pack needlessly rending the silence of the forest. Legolas sighed to himself. _Time to continue with this fool's errand_. "Sam, swear to me that you will do as I instruct."

To Legolas' frustration, reluctance at his order marked Sam's face, his unwillingness to leave his side too clear. It speared him with worry that the hobbit would not act on his command should an opportunity present itself, and all because of his concern over something he could do nothing about.

"_Samwise_! Will you swear to me?"

The sharper tone snapped Sam's attention, and when he dared to look at Legolas _properly_, he did not see the mirthful and gentle-natured elf he was used to seeing. A prince's power stared at him with those intense blue eyes, and Sam realised whose company he had really been sharing over the months. Here was an elven prince, used to issuing commands and having them obeyed. Whilst those eyes were fair, he would not be denied, not in something he deemed so important, and they relayed that need for compliance very clearly…

"I swear," the hobbit said unhappily, loath to be committing himself to an oath that would take him away from the failing elven prince he happened to count as friend. "I'll do it. I promise."

Legolas' unbound hand rested on Sam's shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. "Thank you, Sam. Truly." He smiled then, as true a smile as his pain would grant him.

But no matter how much Sam knew, and no matter how damaged he was, Legolas' pride still stirred in his chest: he would not tolerate the hobbit witnessing him struggle to rise. "Go and help break camp, Sam: I believe your tins need rescuing from Boromir's temper."

Sam cast the elf a concerned look, but Legolas did not return it. The dismissal was clear, and the hobbit reluctantly got to his feet and left.

The blue eyes trained themselves on the hobbit's retreating back in wonderment. This was not the first time one of the small folk had surprised him: Legolas had, after all, been held ultimately accountable to his father for the disappearance of several dwarven prisoners, thanks to Frodo's uncle. Stout in stature, but undeniably massive in courage. If there was anything he knew of Sam, it was that he was a creature of his word, and there was no shadow of doubt in his mind that he would carry Legolas' order through.

"Mára mesta, Sam. I Melain berio le."

* * *

><p>TRANSLATIONS:<p>

Mára mesta – Goodbye

I Malain berio le – May the Valar keep you

Okay, I know this was a very short chapter - by my standards, anyway - but if I made it any longer, it would be truly massive, and the wait would be mean. You've probably guessed it, but the next chapter is when the poopies _really_ hit the fan...

Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and the rest of the story so far, and what is to come in the future. If you wouldn't mind dropping a coin in my review hat, I will be most thankful!

Ghost


	14. Chapter Fourteen: Amon Hen

Firstly, I am so, so sorry it has taken so long for this chapter to get to you. Please don't hate me! Things have not been on track for me (excuses, excuses!), and that has had an impact on the ol' writing (more excuses!). But I'm back now, and I've done you a super-duper long chapter to *kind of* make up for it...

Thank you as always to my wonderful reviewers. You make all the hours of agonising over Legolas' fate worth while. But a special thanks goes to Vanimalion and Myselfonly for their imput on certain aspects of this chapter, that they will doubtless recognise. Thank you, guys!

This chapter may come up with a couple of surprises for you. I believe that writing speech or sequences directly from the films/books is very lazy writing, so "It's Amon Hen, Jim, but not as we know it." This is an AU story, after all.

As Myselfonly pointed out to me not so long ago, it is Tinder for the Flames' birthday in a couple of days, so happy birthday, 'Flames! Everyone have some cake on me. Please enjoy the birthday celebrations, and kindly don't forget to give the story a present in a review-shaped box!

Ghost

* * *

><p>Chapter Fourteen: Amon Hen<p>

Again, he checked his speed. Again, the hobbits were lagging, and even Gimli was showing signs of strain at the pace set by the enemy horde. Aragorn felt desperate impatience snag in his throat as he voiced his desire for them to hurry, yet again.

In the near distance he sighted the Anduin, cutting through the land like a great silver ribbon, a massive trapping boundary: if the Uruks found the others, they could be backed to the water's edge and overwhelmed, easily.

They needed to be _there_, but instead they trailed far behind the rear of the Uruks, too far…

But he knew he was asking too much of them when the hobbits drew closer, their throats rasping with the strain. Despair whispered against his awareness, feather soft, and his heart sunk. They would never get there. The others would be killed, the Ring would be gone –

"Aragorn." Gimli's voice, winded and resigned. Aragorn pried his eyes from the glinting band of the trapping river and settled them on his stout companion. The dwarf trudged to a halt, taking the opportunity of brief rest to bend his back. Beside him, Merry and Pippin likewise tried to ease their stressed muscles, massaging their calves and grimacing. Gimli shook his head. "We'll never … we'll never get there in time." He puffed his cheeks and heaved air into his lungs and kept it there for a moment. "Go, lad. Go to them."

A moment of indecision, then Aragorn _ran_. It was like being freed, an arrow from a taught bow. A lifetime of keeping up with elves – who cared little for mortal limitations – had steeled his endurance levels, and he thanked the Valar for the arrogant impatience of the First Born as he hared through the trees along the heavily beaten track.

-(())-

"Are you _certain_ Aragorn will come here regardless?"

Legolas lifted his heavy gaze wearily from the russet carpet of beech leaves at Boromir's edged query. "The Falls of Rauros were to be our original destination. Logic says he will come." This had to be the fourth time the question was broached, and he was becoming bored of issuing the same answer.

Boromir invested his attention back in his footing, carefully negotiating a sudden drop in the earth. Legolas allowed him to lead their small procession, with Frodo and Sam at the middle, and Legolas following a way behind them. The others were mainly too busy watching their footing to pay him any heed, and that was an arrangement that suited him just fine: out of the line of sight, Legolas did not have to force himself to adhere to any pretences. Only Sam swung his gaze behind himself regularly to regard the elf, and Legolas was ever careful to avoid his worried eyes. As well-meaning as Sam was, his constant looks of concern threatened to unwittingly betray Legolas' secret, and the elf needed to deter such an eventuality.

The sight of the river was lost to them in shrouds of land and trees. The formation of the earth was typical of this forest, with its constant deep lulls and sharp climbs, but Legolas' innate sense of direction corrected their path when Boromir's lead faltered. Almost haze-like, the smell of the falls reached through the trees, a fresh and different scent only one member of their company could detect. It was little more than a thin hint on the air, but the constant damp was evidenced by the soft shroud of mosses climbing the towering trunks. To Legolas, it was a balm, cleansing and pure to his spirit, and he drank in the freshness of it as deeply as he could.

The forest floor levelled to a slightly gentler incline, speared sporadically with the young saplings of silver birch and beech vying to take the places of long-fallen giants. Gold dappled light fell on them, gentle and dancing as the wind tricked the journey of the midday sun through the turning leaves of the canopy above. There was a more open quality to the woodland now, untainted and unassuming, and an old memory stirred in Legolas' heart of a time when his home had shared a similar simple beauty.

But as they travelled, it became apparent to them that this forest held a history not of its own making as they increasingly encountered great hulks of worked white stone, strewn through the forest-scape in a haphazard sense. They began small at first, just the mere hint of a settlement of some kind long ago, chunks buried in leaves that might have been good as doorstops. But as the company drew nearer to the river, the masses became larger and more frequent, forcing them to divert their path to avoid their blocking bulk. Great sections of wall tried to shepherd them to a different route, and even the lost head of a statue seemingly tried to stare them back whence they came.

It was a hauntingly beautiful place, but there was something else there, something darker. Sadness seeped from the scattered ruins like silent tears. The land once dominated by Man had been reclaimed by the forest many centuries past: trees grew, mighty and old, where once the great stone walls had barricaded the forest back. Nothing more violent than Time itself had razed this place. Mosses and lichens swarmed once proud clean stone, doggedly trying to make it a part of the forest. To the man and hobbits, it was sad. To the elf, the place was _wrong_.

"We can stop here," Boromir announced when his feet found a level in the earth that pleased him.

"_Here_?" Legolas assessed their position with a quick dart of his eyes. Ruins towered over them, the age-worn remains of a cluster of buildings surrounding their small company almost forming a ring of stone. Though beech and birch and ash were well established and broke the solidity of the ruins, these physical ghosts of long gone human endeavours too closely resembled a pen. It set his nerves to fire. "Whatever for?"

Boromir cast Legolas a flat look. "Because, we have been walking for hours, and here is as good a place as any." It was a petty flare of defiance against Legolas' command, but it was one the elf had no strength to resist, and Boromir's shield thudded dully in the leaf-litter as he took a seat on some ancient steps that ascended some twelve feet into the air to nothing beyond. When no further objection came from Legolas, Frodo and Sam agreed with Boromir's idea, and wearily seated themselves on a section of fallen wall.

Legolas held his tongue against his misgivings, hearing in his mind's ear Boromir's derisive dismissal. "Very well," he said slowly. "I go to scout."

No-one bid him stay, and Legolas was only too happy to leave the circle of encroaching stone. It was strange to him, but the death of the place pressed on his heart too heavily for him to stand: the natural rhythm of the forest was marred by the scars left by men's efforts, and he felt its effects too deeply. Leaving was the best thing he could do to clear his head of the haunting image of his father's halls reduced to such decimation…

The voices of his companions faded to little more than a rumour, and he could feel the pulse of the forest with better clarity. It did not know him, for his kind had not passed through it within the living memory of any tree growing, but it acknowledged his presence with an edged graciousness, completely different from the harsh shunning of only three days before. He was merely tolerated, however, and the voice of the forest was muted to him. He was a passer-by better tuned to its way, and no more than that. Legolas longed for the familiar and welcoming embrace of his own forest. Rarely had he felt so isolated when he wandered beneath the boughs of a different wood…

Still, he felt his spirit ease with the solitude of his wandering. His wound did not abate in the strength of its pain, but his head felt a little clearer, and the rich hues of the forest had returned to their natural shades. It was a little less frightening.

After walking for a time, his feet found a deer path and he followed it intently, feeling the firmness of their passage through the light soles of his boots. They were not far, their neat imprints new and sharply defined, and for the most fleeting of moments, he thought to hunt. Realisation stung him, sudden and bitter, that he had neither bow nor quiver to hunt with, and even if he still had his knives, he would not be able to so much as stalk in his current condition, never mind execute a kill. Legolas cursed with a fluidity that would have made Gimli proud as he followed a twist in the pathway. The deer trail met with a narrow break in a lengthy and once mighty wall, breached by a falling tree many years ago. The tree itself was little more than a spongy dead mass, collapsed in on itself from the years of rot, and his feet pressed into it as he passed through the closed shoulders of broken stone.

The shock at coming face to face with the Uruk on the other side near paralysed him.

His warriors' reflex was the only thing that saved him when the scimitar arced down to bury its ugly head in his chest. Legolas' hunting knife met the weapon high and deflected it to the side - but the cry that tore from his throat was almost animalistic when his wound ripped. A red flash across his vision and he was too dazed to think, his fighting reactions fettered by agony. Base instinct for survival took over, commanding his body to get as far away as possible. He stumbled back over the tree through the gap in the stone, achieving only just enough of a distance to centre himself to fight before his nemesis flew through the wall for him.

-(())-

Sam fidgeted. He had to fight down the anxiety building in his throat, his worried head repeating the order given to him that morning over and over, trying to find a flaw that would release him of his duty. But there was none to be found. He ought to have known that there would not be one … Legolas was a prince: he would not leave his commands open to interpretation. But the task was so monumental, Sam could not help cowing from its implications…

But the necessity of Legolas' plan was becoming frighteningly clear.

Worry edged at him as he watched their Gondorian companion: Boromir leaned his back into a step, nibbling distractedly at his nails in an agitated manner. His guarded eyes increasingly flitted to Frodo and Sam as though trying to decide on something, before glancing in the direction Legolas had gone. Legolas could only have left five minutes ago, yet Sam felt that an eternity had passed awaiting his return, when his presence would ease the hobbit's worry, both for Frodo, and for the elf.

But his hair stood on end at the jarring metallic ring through the trees and instantaneous sharp scream of pain. He was on his feet without thinking, eyes wide –

Boromir likewise jumped up, ripped from his reverie and sword drawn reflexively, attention riveted in the direction of the noise. Yet he seemed trapped in indecision for a long moment, hovering between running to Legolas' aid and staying with them. He growled deep in his throat as he reached some conclusion and turned to his charges. "Come with me, and for Eru's sake, keep up!" With that he ran along Legolas' path, pausing once before leaving the ruin circle. "Come _on_!"

Sam stirred his body into movement as Frodo ran past him at Boromir's call. Boromir, satisfied that they followed, elevated his run to a sprint. He did not see Sam dart forward to grab Frodo's arm, nor did he hear the hurried conversation.

-(())-

Aragorn saw them as he crested a ridge, swarming through the forest below like an infestation. They were so many, and fear for his friends tensed his heart. The screech of blades somewhere beyond this sea of monsters told him that at least one of them already fought, the fast ring of blades denoting a warrior's skill -

Aragorn barely touched the leafy slope as he launched himself into their midst, his elvish battle-cry accented by the high singing of his sword as it was drawn from its sheath. Before the Uruks could even react to his presence, his sword hewed through three enemy warriors without resistance before meeting with the crudely crafted blade of a better prepared Uruk. His blood turned to fire and his spirit soared with the relish of battle, taking the very greatest pleasure in forcing their attention on him. Let them come. Let them try their luck against him and see how they fared –

-(())-

The Uruk hollered his pleasure at the smell of new blood over old, sensing sickness just as palpably, and Legolas felt no small level of dismay at the bloodlust glimpsed in the frighteningly intelligent eyes when they clashed together –

It took no more than a blink for the Uruk to learn that Legolas could not defend his right side. Legolas' only advantage was that he was lithe and light compared to the hulking mass of his enemy, but the pain stripped him of his natural grace and he stumbled more than danced from the intended strike to his right flank, his strength draining freely with his blood. Realisation blossomed in him that he was likely to die here when the Uruk came for him before he could fully recover, slamming scimitar into knife -

Forest debris flung in the air as he tried to stay too close to the attacking weapon's range, his small hunting knife screaming and sparking with the stress of stopping the much larger scimitar. It was not tempered to the same degree as the white knives had been, never designed to be used in battle, and Legolas felt very real fear that the blade might shatter. They were close together for him to make his own offensive, too close, the stench of his enemy crawling over his senses, washing into him with its vileness. He needed distance to make a true strike, they were _too close_ –

Another swipe at his flank, and he dodged backwards –

Surprise jarred him when his heels caught against a hunk of stone and his balance shifted violently backward. His reflexes tried to catch him, but the Uruk saw an advantage and flung his sword to the ground and bowled full-pelt into Legolas' chest, jagged black teeth bearing down at his throat with the savage intention of ripping it out –

Legolas' knife hand was quick and deft in its dealing. Before his back hit the ground, his blade came up under the exposed lower jaw of his attacker and disappeared to the hilt.

The deep leaf cover failed to soften the impact for him when he struck the ground, the dead weight of the Uruk slamming him solidly into the earth. Everything went black, the shock of the hit driving pain through him until it was all he knew, but there was no air with which to scream, the wind completely beaten from his compressed lungs. Some part of him had the presence of mind to try and roll out from under the carcass…

The weight was almost too much for him to shift. He tried to simply push the smothering corpse off, but his good arm was too tightly trapped against his chest to get sufficient leverage. Legolas writhed desperately, and succeeded in disengaging his elbow. With a difficult twist of his wrist, he managed to get his palm against his fallen enemy's bulk and pushed against it. The pressure on his ribs eased and he almost choked on the air flooding into him, at once a sweet and wonderful gift from the forest, and a blackened and defiled invasion by the stench of the hot iron of orcish blood and filth that smothered him.

But with the air came renewed vision, and with vision came the snarling mottled face right above him…

Panic, sheer and total. Legolas wrenched the knife free from his fallen enemy's jaw and slashed out wide at his new attacker's legs. He felt the honed edge slice through sinew, deep and clean. The Uruk bellowed with pain and rage and lashed out with a heavily-booted foot at Legolas' slender hand. The blade sang as it sailed through the air to skid uselessly into the leaf-litter.

Legolas watched as though through a haze as the angular head of the scimitar swung round to strike into his temple. He was looking at his own oncoming death, yet all he could _see_ was the image of his father in his mind, bent with grief over a table in an armoury many, many leagues away, pleading with him not to go, never to leave him…

The shadow of something large and swift careened into the Uruk with a furious and indiscernible cry. The piercing tip of the scimitar glanced Legolas' cheekbone as he flinched away from it, but nothing more damaging than that. The Uruk disappeared from his limited view, replaced by the heavy clang of close combat and enraged guttural snarls from somewhere out of his sight.

_Get to your feet! Move! MOVE!_

For all his self-commanding, getting his body to comply was a far stretch from the instant obedience he was accustomed to. Pain drilled through him at the very thought of movement, but he would not let it beat him, not while steel met steel in his defence. They might have their differences, but Legolas would not allow Boromir fight alone.

A final shove, and the dead weight slumped off him. Legolas rolled to his knees, fighting to quell the swell of nausea threatening to disable him. It took three attempts to find his feet. The forest floor swayed under him maddeningly but he pushed himself on, catching the bloodied glimmer of his hunting knife in its leafy sheath. Bruised fingers closed over the hilt, welcoming its familiar shape with needy thankfulness.

_A ripple of air behind him_

Despite how dimmed his perception was of the world, his finer elven awareness flared and he ducked, and he felt the scimitar sweep harmlessly over his head. His blood fired with the raw fighting power of his race … he knew the knife in his hand, the weight, the strength, the single perfected edge for dispatching and cleaning prey.

The mutilated heart of his adversary boomed against his awareness, each breath adding a miasmal fog to the clean air, and he could _see _him in all his shadowed dissonance harsh against the quiet harmony of the trees. The shape of this foe was new, but the black heart within still pumped the darkness of the Necromancer through his veins, and that was something with which Legolas was all too familiar.

He and the knife were one, and the elf moved with a lethal grace that belied his condition to destroy the blight. The hunting knife flashed and Legolas flowed his power along its chosen course, bringing it home in one fluid movement…

They were both wreathed in silence, complete and still, and the orc stood dumb. Without so much as a whimper, he crumpled with nothing more than a gurgle of black blood from the puncture wound that penetrated at the base of his throat right to his spine.

As quickly as it had blessed him, the blood-fire of battle chose to abandon him. The sound of Boromir finally dispatching his adversary was a thing too distant for Legolas to hear. The world was made up of harsh light and stark shadow cloaked in those discordant shades again, and his head swam with sickening uncertainty of the orientation of the ground…

Elation sored through Boromir's spirit. He could not feel better, he did not think: was there any feeling purer to a soldier than the joy of clean victory? A grin stretched his mouth, and he felt a foolish boy for it, but a happy foolish boy nevertheless. Such pleasure needed to be shared, and he turned at last to his fighting partner, ready to congratulate him…

But Boromir's triumphant grim faded when he trained his eyes on the elf. Legolas stood still near the wall, listing slightly as though the task of staying upright was nearly too much for him. There was no trace of exhilaration to him: rather, his face was deathly grey in the dappled light, his eyes unfocused and a gentle frown on his sweating brow. With clear effort, he lifted his dark eyes to Boromir's face, though he blatantly fought to focus on him. _He has dimmed_, was Boromir's immediate thought, though he did not understand entirely what that meant.

The strength and endurance of the elves far surpassed that of men … but even elves had their limits, and Legolas had exceeded his own long ago. Everything he had propelled his body to do was done on borrowed strength, and it was draining from him like water streaming through cupped hands. The last drops were escaping him now. The hunting knife he relied on so heavily barely held in his lax fingers, his arm hanging limp…

Boromir's jaw slackened with dismay as his eyes lighted on the mess of Legolas' side, the elven cloak the archer had kept so tight about himself undone in the fight. His entire flank was dark with blood, and for the most fleeting of moments, Boromir thought it must belong to one of the orcs lying at the elf's feet … but he looked harder, and noted with stunned horror that not only was it an actual wound he saw, but it was _old_, the lengthy laceration surrounded by dark stiffened material as well as fresh wet. Boromir had seen similar wounds before, but the men who had them did not walk around, and they certainly never engaged in battle. How the elf had managed to keep such a very serious injury secret and maintain some air of normality was completely beyond him … though it did explain much: his taciturn demeanour; the ease with which he startled; sleeping on watch; why his resistance to Boromir's sword in the gully had been incomparable to their fight at the camp a few nights prior. He knew the weakness now…

"More come."

The words were thick and unexpected. They butted against Boromir's shock, bringing him back to himself. "What?"

Legolas visibly forced himself to come together, taking a deep shuddering breath and giving his head a little shake. It was evidently not quite enough to steady him, and he moved closer to the wall, leaning his good shoulder against its cold and solid surface. He blinked several times and swallowed before he continued. "This -" he swept his knife hand meaningfully at the corpses "- this was a scouting party. They were drawn here by my blood, most likely." Such a matter-of-fact statement for one who thought himself as being hunted like an animal, like the idea did not bother him!

Realisation dawned on Boromir that what the elf said was true: these were scouts, sent ahead. And there was only room for one thought in his head: "Frodo..." Panic tightening his fist about the grip of his sword. The Ring must not fall into their hands, and they were coming for it. "Frodo!" he barked, expecting the hobbit to emerge from hiding, Samwise close behind. When there was no answer, no hint of movement, he paced, trying to see past the trees to where the hobbits hid. "The danger is over! Come out." Still, there was nothing. He placed more conviction into his stride, allowing irritation to cover his growing anxiety. _Why do they not answer me? _Irritation began to edge into anger. "Damn these trees!" he fumed. "Frodo! Sam!"

"They are gone, Boromir."

"Don't be absurd!" he snapped, continuing his agitated search. "Why would they be gone? _Frodo_!"

"Because I told them to go."

Boromir froze. He wheeled round at the voice and stared. Legolas stared right back, unblinking and calm. Those eyes relayed much to him: age and knowledge, pain and misery, a strange sense of expectation … but for all their complexity, there was no lie to them.

Never before had he known such anger. He did not try to restrain it as it seeped into every element of his being. His heart swelled with its terrible might, rage so total he knew it was dangerous. But he could not have cared less.

"You fool." He shook his head, a vicious and hateful sneer baring his teeth. "You _FOOL_!"

Legolas failed to so much as twitch in the face of Boromir's ire, his eyes cool towards the Gondorian, even as pain burned their brightness away. He wanted to kill him, he wanted to kick that miserable hide into Mandos himself, but instead his feet made to carry him purposefully past the elf –

Boromir stopped when Legolas manoeuvred himself into his path. The grey of his face suggested he might collapse at any moment, but his eyes were determined even in their dulled state, and he stood firm. From somewhere deep inside his rage, Boromir found the pitiful display amusing, and he laughed. But the laugh arrested itself and the sneer took over again. "You think you can stop me?"

"We made a vow, Boromir," Legolas snapped, a shade of his old fire sparking in his voice. "A _vow_. Do you remember swearing an oath to protect him? Or is the memory of Men really that poor?"

"Dead history, Legolas, nothing more. I want no part of it."

"Dead history, yet you seem bent on seeing it repeated!"

"Why do you strive to influence that which is not your concern?" Boromir spat. "The time of Elves is over, Legolas." His hold adjusted on his sword, nothing more than a flex of his fingers, but a clear sign he knew Legolas would read. "This was never your business. I warn you now: _step aside_."

_So finally, it comes to this. _Legolas straightened his back and altered his own grip on his hunting knife. His muscles primed, but the readiness in them was thin and unsustainable. He was weak, so, so weak, and that secret was open to the world now, to Boromir. The same darkness he had witnessed speaking honeyed poison into Frodo's ear not so many nights past looked on him now. The reserved son of the steward was not there, but rather a black malice dominated the man's eyes, and Legolas recognised its murderous burn. Only this time, Legolas did not possess the strength to repel it. It saw him as a threat, and it would see him eliminated. But for all his life, Legolas would not be swayed to move. "I am still here," he said quietly. "And so are my people, and this is as much their world as it is yours. I will not let you take that from them."

Neither of them moved. Always, there had been a void of understanding between the two of them, a deep chasm of mistrust that would never allow them to consider the other as friend. But there had always been the Fellowship, and under that banner they had battled together to achieve the same goal. But that thin allegiance was gone now, and two warriors who mere moments ago had fought together prepared to fight against each other, each needing to shield his people from the darkness, each seeing the other as a threat to their safety. The highest price was being asked, and both were willing to pay.

"Injury will not buy you leniency." A statement rather than a warning, given with no more compassion than cold indifference.

An odd smile angled Legolas' lips, sad and knowing. "I know."

"_I know." _Even now, when they braced to fight, those two words jolted something deep in Boromir's chest, something pained. Those words, that look … like the elf had always expected this of him. It was as though he had seen it, sitting in his soul like some kind of demon, tearing the essence of his warrior heart and stitching it back together with poisoned threat. The judgement clearly had been made long ago, so far ahead of Boromir's first thought of abandoning the quest of the Fellowship that he felt deeply betrayed, that his part counted in the end for nothing. And he was willing to gamble all of Gondor that Legolas had whispered in Aragorn's ear and turned the ranger's thoughts against him.

With a bellow, it was the man that moved first, throwing his bullish strength forward, and they clashed.

-(())-

Zealous bellows in Khuzdul announced Gimli's joining the fray, and Aragorn was pleased that the dwarf had caught up with him. A glance his companion's way, and he could see any trace of physical exhaustion was gone to the relish of battle, Gimli's axe engaging their enemies as he all but cackled with glee. This was where the dwarf was in his element, and Aragorn felt the keen sense of brotherhood as they worked towards each other, coming to fight back-to-back. Separately, they were dangerous. But when they were together, they were fierce dancers, death courting their every move. Man and dwarf knew the style of the other perfectly, and they matched their partner with an aggressive fluidity that made them untouchable.

But the heady sensation of invincibility searing Aragorn's blood gave way to blind panic when he saw the two hesitant figures skirting the fringe of the battle.

Merry and Pippin, the elvish daggers they used as swords in hand, but lowered and unprepared. They stayed clamped to each other, eyes wide and fearful as they took in the chaos of battle before them. It was not surprising that they were unnerved … the orcs of Moria were bent and spidery creatures, dangerous and savage but stupid. These creatures they faced now were new and man height, ox-strong and completely unfazed by the sunlight streaming on their backs, fighting with uniform discipline.

Aragorn increased the aggression of his fight to up the distraction, giving a cry from the pits of his stomach and thrusting his sword through an Uruk's gut and arching it seamlessly through the throat of another. Gimli sensed the change in Aragorn's fight and matched it freely. But the ferocity of their battle could engage only so many.

Horrified, the ranger witnessed the trees behind the immobilised hobbits leak Uruks, stalking the halflings with a terrible warg-like stealth. And there was no way he could reach them.

_NO!_

The Uruks were within feet of them -

"HOBBITS – _RUN!_"

Merry started at Aragorn's frantic shout. As though in a dream, he looked behind -

The hairs on Merry's arms bristled when his eyes fixed with the cruel predatory focus of the Uruk mere feet behind them, shrouded in the dappled light streaming through the canopy, a hulking and deadly power. They were three, and he and Pippin were their prey, small deer to their snapping wolf jaws -

Merry grabbed Pippin's arm hard and shot forward, forcing his younger cousin to go with him. From the trees behind, he heard the Uruks snarl at their spoiled hunt and break into a sprint themselves, their hateful power pounding the ground with disturbing speed.

It felt like blind terror was impeding his flight: he and Pippin were embroiled in a shared nightmare, legs trying to run through treacle while the monsters were free to get them. Merry had never known such fear. But the over-large feet of hobbits gave them a slight advantage, and he and Pippin flew in a completely different trajectory without slowing, shooting through thicker trees that marched down another steep incline towards the shore of the river. To the hunting Uruks, it was as though the hobbits had evaporated, and their did not hesitate in colouring the air with bellowed frustration.

The hobbits jointly ducked into the damp and mossy bowl of a massive beech, cowering into its protective shelter. The Uruks were just visible to them at the lip of the incline through the barring trees, questing for a hint of their scent or sign of their passage. Pippin's fingers coiled into Merry's sleeve, and the older hobbit did not care that he caught flesh, feeling assurance with the steely grasp: they might fear for their lives, and their hearts might be hammering for release from their chests, but at least they were together. Despite the danger, Merry felt his mouth curve into a grin as the Uruks started to look the other way…

But the grin left him when he saw two like-wise fleeing characters through the trees, their cloaks streaming behind them as they ran towards the path of the hunters - _Frodo and Sam!_

To Pippin's utter horror, Merry shot from their shelter in a snap decision and stamped his foot down on a dry fallen branch.

The brittle wood split with a whip-like crack, and Merry was rewarded with the triumphant bellows of their hunters at the glaring indicator he had given, and they were crashing through the twiggy saplings and greater trunks, destroying what the hobbits had skirted so easily –

Merry started to run, and then realised he was alone. Backpedalling, he found Pippin, paralysed with terror in the ruined shelter of the beech. His muscles ached with the need for flight, but he would not leave his cousin behind. "Come _on_, Pip!"

But Pippin was too numbed with fear and the shattered promise of a good hiding place. Dazedly, his wide eyes met the frantic stare of the slightly older hobbit. "But how can we get away now? You've ruined our hiding place."

Merry lunged forward, grabbing a fistful of Pippin's attire and forcing him to his feet, not letting go until he knew he ran, the excited cries of the Uruks hounding them through the trees.

-(())-

Any move Legolas made against him was so weak Boromir felt like he fought a child: he was a distraction, an inconvenience, but little more than that. His sword swatted the knife away, snapping the elf's wrist back with a blow too powerful for him to counter. Legolas' hand retained the short blade, but only just. The elf's teeth were bared with effort, his breath snatched as he raised his arm again to block a fresh assault, but he stood no chance of making his own attack against the constant barrage of sword strikes -

Boromir was fighting a shade, nothing more. His pride grudgingly accepted that he had battled with a truly powerful being all those nights ago when they had fought in the firelight. Back then, he had felt that the elf's strength had been toying with him, that if he had really wanted, he could have bested Boromir in a flourish of white steel and unseen might.

Now, he was a thing broken, a cracking husk crippled with blight. _Weak. Weak. WEAK!_

He swept his shield up to catch Legolas in the chin. The elf only narrowly evaded the attack, rearing his head back, the shield almost skimming his nose, it was so close. But the action left Boromir open, and damaged as Legolas was, he was still fast. Before the Gondorian could realise what was happening, Legolas was inside his shield arm, and he found himself folding over the elf's fist as it struck with surprising power up under his ribs.

A sharp cry elicited from Legolas' throat as the shock of the blow jolted into his shoulder. Using his right fist was not a move he had ever intended, but it had been necessary. Still, the pain crippled him, and his vision swam again…

The strike had been surprisingly powerful, but it only partially took Boromir's breath, and it was certainly not enough to stop him. More than anything, he was amused that the elf was so weakened he resorted to using his fists.

But he tired of this game. _Enough!_

A flash of fearful realisation knifed through Legolas, but there was nothing he could do as Boromir's sword arm angled sharply up and his swimming vision filled with the weighty pommel of the sword. His head snapped back with the sheer force of the impact into his cheekbone, but even before his body could decipher the strength of pain caused by such a hit, Boromir dropped his shoulder and rammed his elbow straight into his side. The two ribs already cloven by the Nazgûl blade put up no more protective resistance than dried twigs.

This time, there was no barely successful catch of balance, no quick turn to regain his footing. The harsh impact of his body as he was flung into the forest floor sounded with a weighted finality, and he skidded to a halt in the leafy loam with as much grace as a child's rag doll.

A deep quiet blanketed them both, and Boromir remained primed, still straining to get a proper breath into his lungs as he waited for Legolas to get up. But Legolas remained where he had come to a stop on his right side, his stained gold hair full of dried beech leaves and dirt as it seemed to merge with the stuff of the forest floor. He did not move again.

Like a flash flood, the consuming rage was gone, and Boromir felt stripped down to his core in its aftermath. His senses opened again, acknowledging that there was an entire world enveloping him. The peppery scent of disturbed leaf litter sharpened the winter cold. The turning leaves whispered of his actions to the breeze above his head, and he felt so very isolated. Not for the first time, Boromir pined for the brotherhood of the mess halls, sharing ale and crude stories with his men, warm in the heat of the large cooking fire and their good will. He was oddly cold, despite the fight. Through his life, he had won countless battles, both on his own and as part of an army. But never before had he looked on his defeated combatant and felt such … _emptiness_.

"Legolas…?" He edged forward, his hesitant steps disintegrating leaves and snapping at the painful silence all too loudly. Everything was so quiet: birds did not chitter at each other overhead, nothing moved. Only he seemed to exist, the sound of his movements lonely and lost. It was like the forest shunned him. The cold of isolation trickled through his veins to line the hollowness inside.

He had killed him. He had killed a brother at arms, a warrior he had battled alongside many times and finally against. Through his own power, he had done what Time would never do to an elf as it would himself and every other mortal. Everlasting life was a thing beautiful and sad, like a lone meadow flower, and he had used his might to stamp it out, crushing it to a sorry and unrecognisable mess and forcing an elf to share the mortal's bane.

_He was between my people and their salvation. What I did was necessary. _

And yet…

Boromir mentally shook himself: he had to steel himself against sentiment and regret.

There was no way he could reverse time. And he had done it for the sake of his people. One elf could not be allowed to stand between his people and freedom from the Dark Lands. _What was done was done, and it was necessary. Find Frodo, and bring It home. Find It before they do_.

Boromir nodded his head to himself, accepting his own counsel, and with a final glance at the fallen elf, he tried to pull the first proper breath since Legolas' punch.

His body jarred at the sudden kick of pain penetrating right to his very core.

Confusion knitted his brow, and he gave his head a little shake. But the pain remained, sharp and precise, and his chest would not obey his command to draw a proper breath. Instead he coughed, and the pain peaked to razor agony, accented by the tang of iron in his mouth –

As though propelled by its own curiosity, Boromir's gloved hand lighted on the spot where Legolas' fist had connected, and drew away. It came to a stop before his face, showing him the wet painting his fingers, red and rich against the black leather. With numbed disbelief, Boromir's eyes travelled from his hand, to the front of his tunic. His front was dark and drenched, and he could smell it now, the heavy metal of hot blood. He could feel it, tacky wetness bathing his stomach. Dazedly, his eyes dragged to Legolas, and he really _looked _at the elf for the first time…

Legolas' left hand, the one that had yielded his only remaining weapon since their paths had crossed the day before, was empty. But in the lax grip of his _right_ hand, the hand that had delivered the punch, was the knife, not stained with black anymore, but with bright red, standing proud against the clean white steel of the blade.

Boromir tried to blink back the blackness thieving his sight, but with no success. He felt so far removed from his own body, so distant, that he felt like a puppet master as he forced his body move, to begin the search for Frodo. But his dragging feet edged him only a few halting steps before he crumpled, his glazing eyes wide and unseeing. Boromir was gone before the ground greeted his body and welcomed him finally as part of the woods.

-(())-

Sam ran. For all he was worth, he ran, and kept on running, shifting course to avoid the sudden block of numerous tree trunks. In body he was pursuing Frodo for the river, but his heart was fleeing the distant clash of blades. The noise had changed: there had been more than one set of combatants originally, the crude steel of their enemies meeting in discordant shrieks with finer weapons. But then there had been silence, and the sound had started again, a desperate and keening song. He knew who fought.

If he faltered, he knew he would turn back. What he could do to help was beyond him, but he would turn back. And so he ran with tears obscuring his vision, spurred on by an oath sworn.

But a new chaos of noise found them: an army of feet, devouring the distance between them and his master. And above the clamour, a new order, one that turned the young hobbit's blood to ice, bellowed and thick with the accent of the Black Speech: "FIND THE HALFLING!" Fear snagged at his heart and brought it high into his throat. They were found, and there was nothing between them and their hunters save for an unmoving sentinel of trees. "FIND THE HALFLING!"

-(())-

The fight was getting too close for such a long weapon, and choosing to sacrifice his own security, Aragorn's right hand released his sword and found the elvish dagger at his hip. The blade plunged through the neck of his closest combatant and he went down with a goblin-like squeal and gush of blood, but three others immediately assumed his place.

Aragorn fell back as his chest took a glancing blow from a scimitar. It was more of a hit than a true strike, and the expected sear of sliced flesh did not assail him. But his ribs knew pain all the same, and he found himself suddenly unable to wield the weight of his sword. Without thinking, he released it altogether, and without any stretch of thought, his hands closed on the fine bone hilts in his belt.

Fighting with the white knives was like fighting without thought, they were so light. He acted through reflex, and it was as though the fine elvish blades took down their enemies on their own. It was like being free, and he allowed his body to adapt to the use of such close-quarter weapons, feeling himself flowing along the lines demanded by the path of the knives. He understood now why Legolas loathed swords so. But even with the help of Legolas' knives, Aragorn could not break through the barrier of orcish bodies penning him and Gimli away from their friends. Failure threatened, massive and consuming, and he could not restrain the swell of despair tightening his chest.

-(())-

Merry and Pippin barely noticed the subtle change in the landscape, not seeing the smaller clumps of moss-shrouded white stone they hared past, until the larger masses loomed through the forest, sudden and impressive. Their thoughts jointly glanced over the idea of hiding amongst them, but the crashing of their pursuers was too close. If they could only fly through the forest unhindered, they might gain enough of a distance between them to hide properly…

The great wall that reared up in front of them was the most horrifying thing either of them had ever seen.

They both skidded to a halt, Pippin grabbing at his cousin painfully. Fear weakened their muscles, their heads skittish and unthinking with blind panic at this impenetrable obstacle standing silent and cruel in their path, enveloping them like fish in a fish trap for the Uruks to harvest … until Pippin sighted the gap in the wall's defence, a crumbled slit created by a long-dead tree offering them a chance to escape. "There! Look!"

They both sprinted for the gap, flying over the rotted tree with the hounding snarls of their pursuers snapping hot and bloodthirsty, so close behind -

Double shouts of pain fired from the hobbits when their toes met with something solid they had not seen, and before they could even question what happened, they slammed into the forest floor on their stomachs.

Pippin rolled to see what had caused their fall, his rather stunned curiosity ignoring their danger to look. His eyes found the heavy leather boots of a man and quickly took in the rest of him, slumped on the ground with the forgotten grace of a child's play thing, his pale green eyes open to the dappled light and as empty as the great caverns of Moria, his front dark with blood from a slit no more than two inches wide under the arch of his ribs. Pippin was frozen looking into those eyes, eyes he had seen narrow and serious with thought, and bright and laughing in lighter moments. For a man who had lived his entire life in the shadow of Mordor, he laughed a lot; the lines about those green eyes said so –

A shadow consumed the green light, shrouding Boromir's body in darkness. A strong stench of filth forced its way over Pippin's senses and fear convulsed his muscles into finding his feet – but before he could think to run, an iron fist closed about his shoulder and lifted him bodily with no more effort than as if he were a sack of wool. Too terrified to blink, he found himself levelled with the face of his captor, the Uruk's dark mottled skin practically crawling into a triumphant grin at his catch.

But metal sang, a clean and whirling sound, and with a _thud_ the Uruk's grin fell slack, the elvish blade penetrating deep into his neck.

Pippin was dropped like a stone, but he fell on his feet, stumbling out of the way before the corpse could collapse on him. He stared at the hilt angling steeply into the thick neck. Though he did not think he had seen the small blade before, the tendril design wrapping about the dark wood was familiar, making its statement clear against the forces of Sauron despite its size. Before he could recover enough to look for the thrower, a long and slightly trembling bloodied hand pulled the knife clear.

"_Legolas_!"

It _was_ Legolas, but not as they had ever known him. Neither hobbit had ever seen anyone in such a mess. Aragorn had said that he was hurt, but they had not expected _this_. Practically everywhere their eyes alighted on him was tainted with blood, even streaking through his hair in crude ribbons. Lines about his blue eyes scripted his pain, deep and telling, and his movements were sluggish, like he moved by sheer will alone. But something of the Legolas they knew flashed before them as his attention snapped for the gap, sharp and primed with a hawk-like poise at the sound of undergrowth being torn and crushed just beyond the wall. "Defend yourselves!"

Their weapons were barely in their hands when the Uruks erupted through the wall.

-(())-

Lurtz drank in the heady scent he caught on the air. He breathed deeper, opening his mouth and pulling the smell over the back of his tongue, tasting it and learning its quality. It was so close now, fresh and alluring. Lurtz followed the smell, accented now by the warring clamour of blades, and he knew that he was close, so, so close to having what he desired. He was captain after all, and that station afforded him certain privileges. There was elf blood to be had, and he would ensure that it was his alone.

-(())-

Legolas had not the strength for this, and even as the Uruk he engaged fell to his blade, he could not effectively dispatch the one that took his place. Legolas knew in his heart that sheer force of numbers would defeat them. The hobbits were fighting, but they were driven by fear rather than skill, and they would not hold for long. But if they were here, then Aragorn could not be far behind -

Something glanced against his side. Not a direct hit, but the surrounding flesh shrieked with a flare of unadulterated agony, and despite his clamouring panic to stand with the hobbits and protect them, his legs folded under him, weak like a new-born foal.

Distracted by his fall, Merry and Pippin called out to him, fearful and keening cries of his name … but their calls changed pitch and tempo, morphing into pleas for help. Through a nightmare-ish haze, he witnessed both hobbits disarmed and hoisted over the hulking shoulders of their captors with little more effort than if they were children playing with sticks. And now they were begging him, the desperate cries of starling chicks attacked by crows to their parent. But just like a starling against such mighty adversaries, there was nothing he could do. Protective instinct pushed him to his feet again, but the spear of agony would not allow him to go any further. Legolas' knees buckled again, and he had not the reserves to fight his collapse.

Somewhere near him, he recognised the warped sound of laughter, and his head raised just enough to let him see his mocker. An Uruk, taller and lighter coloured than his subordinates, was beside him, a great tower of solid muscle and power. He bent over, catching Legolas' chin in his clawed hand and jerking his face skyward, cold and sickly pale eyes lit with sadistic pleasure at the fading light before him.

Legolas had been captured by orcs before. His stay with them had not been prolonged thanks to the efforts of his men, but from his own experiences and what he had witnessed when he had performed the rescue missions himself, elves did not fare well in the company of orcs, less so than any of the other Free Peoples. Their hatred for each other ran deeper than any vein of _mithril_ ever formed, but the orcs punctuated their hate with pain and mutation, humiliation and horrific death. It was a practice amongst the elves of Mirkwood to have the most skilled archer of the party shoot an unrecoverable captured friend. _Pilin mîl_, the kind arrow. There were darker aspects to being the best archer of the kingdom.

There was no-one here to help him. Legolas could do no more than wait for whatever this creature had in mind for him, and his eyes burned when the image of his father came to him again.

But something to their right drew the Uruk's attention, and to Legolas' shock, he was released. When the hateful yellow eyes focused again on him, though, there was some deeper element to their sadistic glow. Another rough laugh, this time knowing and brutal, and the Uruk mockingly tapped his cheek with his spade-like hand, taps that cut Legolas' skin on his teeth. He moved away, raising a crude horn and giving three yowling blasts that galed through the trees, raking their mark into the very soul of the forest. The surrounding Uruks poured back together at the summons, running like a vile poisoned river and carrying the hobbits away on the torrent into the depths of the trees. The horn echoed again, reaffirming the order to move out. To Legolas, it laughed at his failure.

Legolas could not see Pippin, but a prayer whispered over his lips as he found Merry's eyes and held them for as long as he was able, until the hobbit was stolen from his view. They had been reunited for no more than a handful of minutes, and he had let them be captured -

The sudden hold about his neck was so iron-tight he could not breathe. Legolas' side almost paled to insignificance when he was hauled from the ground by his crushing throat, feeling as though it might rip with the strain. His feet flailed desperately trying to find the ground, but he was fully elevated, and he could not stop the pulse of fear rippling through him when his eyes met those of his captor, brightened with bloodlust and cruel excitement.

-(())-

His feet skidded in detritus again when the ground beneath them bucked and bowed, upsetting the speed of his flight with the sudden uneven gradients. Frodo's heart thundered in his throat for release. He could hear them, so close behind and surging through the trees, their attention focused on finding _him_. There were so many, and there was no-one in the way, not any more. No Aragorn, no Gimli. Merry and Pippin he could only pray were safe. And Legolas and Boromir…

Forest loam gave way suddenly to stone and Frodo nearly careened into the river when the pebbles his abrupt halt upset tried to carry him into the water. Regaining his balance, he took stock of where he was. The clean scent of the river met him, the not too distant and constant roar of the Falls of Rauros Legolas had spoken of merging with the sound of his own blood rushing past his ears. But as he looked, hopelessness left its bitter taste in the back of his throat…

The span of the river here was vast, and even were it narrower, it ran too fast for him to entertain the notion of swimming for longer than a beat of his panicking heart. For the magnitude of the problem he faced in crossing, the Anduin might as well have been a sixty foot wall.

The clack of disturbed stone behind him announced Sam's arrival. Frodo did not look at him. Despair welled in his chest, hot and consuming. There was no way to cross … and he could hear them getting closer, yammering and baying after him like a pack of savage hounds.

Sam came to his side. He said nothing, his eyes trained on the impossible barrier of water. But when Frodo glanced despairingly at his friend, he saw that the same feeling of hopelessness did not grip him: there was panic in his eyes, but there was a keen edge to them as they danced over the shore and the quick waters beyond. "There're moorings here…" Sam's head flicked between the aged stone posts, spaced evenly apart and still proud after so many years.

"So? We've no boat, Sam," Frodo pointed out, feeling an unreasonable touch of impatience that Sam did not see the obvious.

"No," Sam agreed. "But look at the rope on that one -" he pointed to a limp hang of rotting green cord. "These have been used. Maybe not _recently_, but there's moorings on the other shore, see? Right over there, near that overhang. There'll be boats here somewhere, I'll warrant…"

Before Frodo could protest, Sam shot up the bank and proceeded to scour the edge. Frodo did not join him, his own hopelessness untouched by Sam's futile optimism. Without giving it any second thought, his hand drifted to the small symmetrical bulge under his shirt. His fingers pressed against it, detecting the contours of oddly cold metal against his skin, and his anxiety ebbed, just a little. It was stupid to even entertain the idea of finding boats, he needed to find some other way, some way that would keep It safe, safe from everyone –

"Here! They're here!"

Frodo's wayward thoughts jarred back, his awareness filling with the sounds of the falls and the not too distant clamour of his hunters, the scents of forest meeting water, the cold light of afternoon. In stunned disbelief, Frodo turned in the direction of Sam's shout, some hundred yards along the bank. He could not see his friend for a minute, and it was only when Sam stepped out from a particularly dense cluster of trees and waved to him enthusiastically that he knew where to go. Sam disappeared under the low branches, and when Frodo joined him, the glow on the other hobbit's face practically lit the dark shelter the boats were hidden in.

There were four of them in total. They were about as far from their abandoned elven boats as it was possible to get. What parts of the wood that were not dark with algae and blotched with lichen were silver with age, splintered and uneven and covered in years of rotted leaves and brittle branches. Silt rested in their damp bellies from past floods, the tightness of the trees and the decaying strands of rope still holding them having saved them from plummeting down the falls. One of them was clearly not serviceable, a large fallen branch having split its hull open. But the others looked sound enough.

Frodo could not believe it.

"Even if we take one and it leaks, it won't matter," Sam was saying quickly, scooping great clods of muck from one boat and inspecting its planking. "So long as we don't go sinking like a rock, it can fill as much as it likes when we get to the other side." Upon closer inspection, the boat had a cracked stern from some impact long ago, and the split had resulted in some of the lower planking warping and opening a seam. Dismissing it as unworthy, Sam moved on to the next one.

"Sam…"

Sam did not hear him, too engrossed in his task. He ran a hand hastily over the wood of the other boat, and found nothing that dissatisfied him: there were no holes or cracks, and the seams appeared tight. This was the one for them, and he snatched two oars from other boats and threw them in. "Help me get it out -"

"_Sam._"

It was the quality of Frodo's voice that stopped him mid-tug rather than the use of his name. When he looked up into his master's face, he blinked. Realisation swamped him and left him cold. "Oh, no. No. Frodo -"

"I'm sorry, Sam…"

_I'm sorry, Sam._ Those words. Far too closely akin to what he had been told only earlier that day…_ I'm sorry, so, so sorry, but..._ Always to him, always on _his _shoulders, the feeling of helplessness, choice stripped away and leaving him with nothing. Only ever him. The words were bitter to him now, and hearing them that morning from Legolas as the elf gave up his fight pushed too hard against his boundaries. But to hear them now from Frodo, it was more than he could stand, and beyond anything he was prepared to accept without a fight.

"I have to go alone."

Sam straightened his back, releasing his hold on the rough prow. "Why?" He pushed all of his conviction behind his voice. "You can't go on your own. Not _there_."

Frodo could not look at him. The hope that he could quietly slip away was shattered, a foolish aspiration ground to dust by circumstance. Simply disappearing, leaving without a word, without having to see the betrayal and upset in Sam's eyes … it was so selfish of him, but he never wanted to embark on this journey with that final image of his dearest friend scarred against his memory…

But he would stand that vision, and see it every waking moment, if it meant he would never see any harm come to Sam in flesh.

Frodo's eyes would not lift to Sam's face at his instruction, vastly preferring training themselves on the bottom of Sam's boat. "This task was given to me -"

"So?" Sam challenged directly. He had never spoken to Frodo so frankly, but his desperation would not allow him to be dismissed, not now. "You were given It to carry, Mister Frodo, and Master Elrond said you was the only one as could." He shook his head, knowing the hot sting in his eyes and refusing to let it become anything more. "But no-one _ever_ said you had to do this alone."

Finally, he raised his eyes, feeling their traitorous burn and doing his best to ignore it. "You have to stay, Sam."

"Tell me _why_!" Upset peppered Sam's voice, but it only spurred his determination. "_Why? _If you think I'm stayin' -"

"Because I'm _tired _of people taking risks for me!"

Sam silenced. Frodo could not stand to look at the pity in his eyes, and he turned his head away towards the mist of the falls. He bit into his cheek, feeling the tumbles of warmth pattering down his skin and resenting them fiercely.

"Who said anythin' about risks? I was just goin' to cook a bit is all."

Frodo's snort betrayed him, and he could not help the fond glance he offered his friend. But their situation sobered him all too quickly. "If you come with me, anything could happen to you." His voice threatened to buckle, but he forced himself on. "If you come with me, you could be hurt. You could…" Frodo could not stomach the word, and did not let it part his lips. But they both knew to what he eluded. He shook his head. "You should go home, Sam. Find Merry and Pippin and go back to the Shire. You'll be safe -"

"But for how long?" There was harshness to his voice that even Sam had never heard before, but he would not be cowed by it. "This thing isn't going to leave the Shire alone, not always. I've just as much right to defend it as you."

Frodo looked away. The thing that made his heart ache was he _did _see. The Shire, to the hobbit folk, was the world entire … to them, nothing existed beyond the boarders save stories, elves and dwarves and men occupants of the legends, and little more. Gandalf's irregular intrusions were a rude reminder that there were taller folk out there, but he was of the few to ever venture into their lands. Their friends and family lived in safety and shelter and peace, a place where their primary concerns consisted of whether the rains could ruin the pipe weed crops, and who might host the winter solstice celebrations. It was plenty big enough for them.

But Frodo and Sam had had their eyes opened for them: the legends were real, and the Shire was a very, very small place, little more than a tiny pocket of the world, allowed to linger in peace by the outside thanks to nothing more protective than forgetfulness and a wizard's careful deflection. But how long would it be before the attentions of the dark forces realised that there was an entire country of green lands populated by farmers to be plundered?

"I swore I'd stay with you." Sam's tone dipped, the hurt quality of his eyes seeping into his voice, but still refusing to be defeated by Frodo's silence. "I swore it _twice_, and I can no more betray their trust as I can leave you." Sam shook his head, and the tears he tried to restrain so fervently spilled without shame to the pebbles at their feet. "Don't send me away."

A thin glimmer of daylight touched the prow of the boat. Frodo watched it for a moment, this blade of pure light; it made the silvered wood flash unexpected gold. He did not want to see anything happen to Sam as it had too many others, he could not cope with it … but at the core of it, Sam was right: the Shire was his world, and he had just as much right to fight for it. Frodo's hand drifted into the stream of sunlight. The wood was warmed already, hungry for the blessing touch. Frodo forced himself to look at his friend. Tears tracked his own cheeks, and like Sam, he did not try to hide them any longer. But the hair bristled over his neck and arms at the not too-distant yammer of the orc horn, somewhere in the woods behind them. By his will or no, Frodo could not send Sam away. "Help me get this boat out."

-(())-

The Uruk Aragorn battled backed out of the ranger's reach at the ringing summons of the horn. His two remaining companions mirrored his action uncertainly, glancing nervily at their foes, and into the trees beyond. They bore their teeth and snarled with frustration in the distracted peace, and ever the man and dwarf remained primed and unblinking, daring them to start again. Aragorn's adversary came forward again, scimitar raised and ready – but his loathsome head snapped to the north at the impatient second yowl of the orcish horn. He roared in the ranger's face, a great bellow of anger, but he abandoned the fight all the same, running north into the trees, his two companions not far behind.

Aragorn felt an icy tremor run down his insides. The summons could mean only one thing, and they were in entirely the wrong place. Without waiting for confirmation of Gimli's thoughts, Aragorn launched into pursuit of their enemies, pleading with the Valar that they would not be too late.


	15. Chapter Fifteen: When the Darkness Comes

This has been an awfully long time coming, and I can only apologise. My time is not quite my own any more, but I will never abandon this story. I can only hope you enjoy this chapter and that it has been worth the wait, and that you enjoy those that follow.

My very special thanks goes to Myselfonly, whose constant encouragement and prompting has pushed this chapter from a lost thing into something (hopefully) readable.

Enjoy, and tell me what you think at the end (it's the only payment we get, after all!)

Ghost

-((-))-

Chapter Fifteen: When the Darkness Comes

No new air could get to his lungs. Spent as it was, he dared not exhale what little he had. The crushing grip about his throat made his head whirl and pulse towards oblivion. His life was leaving him, flowing between the merciless fingers of a savage enemy he could not hope to match…

But even as Legolas' vision began to hedge towards a more permanent blackness, he still had the presence of mind to want to heave with revulsion as the Uruk's grey tongue traced the blood of his split cheek, lapping at his face with the avarice of a thing starved.

Raw instinct remembered the knife still clenched in his left hand. The fire for survival dismissed the agony of his wounded side as insignificant –

Where he should have felt the tug of leather on the blade edge contrasting with the butter-soft penetration into the gut beneath, Legolas' reward for his effort was nothing more damaging than a single scratch to the surface of the jerkin. Whatever vestiges of strength he had were utterly spent on that final resistance, and he had nothing left.

His tormentor's head snapped back with a mocking roar, the sadistic taint in his orange eyes eclipsed with mirth. "_Pathetic maggot_!" he snarled disparagingly and he lifted Legolas higher and slammed his back into an ancient ash, so hard his vision sparked and flashed with tiny pocks of light. The Uruk's free hand found Legolas' knife-hand and captured his wrist. In a flash of very real fear, Legolas thrashed fruitlessly and tried to rip himself free as the Uruk began to exert his true strength into twisting the bones within round each other, but it was like being trapped in rock -

Legolas' eyes widened with the sharp clarity of new and sudden pain, the sensation of something snapping punctuated by what little air he still had fleeing in a harsh scream.

The knife tumbled from his hold, his only chance at salvation lost to him amongst the shed leaves, and the last thing that he ever saw would be that loathsome face, yellow-fanged maw wide and descending for his neck like some wild beast –

Everything changed.

A bellow reached through his fogging mind, strong and clear and angry. Something – some_one_ - careered into them and he was dropped, forgotten like a stolen toy. Legolas hit the ground hard, but he barely felt it as he fought to drag air into his abused lungs. He choked, straining to take in too much for his throat and stressed chest to manage. Nothing was getting through; there was no easing of the crushing of his heart, no relaxing of his throat to allow the air free admittance -

Someone seized him by the shoulders and hefted him upright. Through his panic he tried to resist, but his new captor was the stronger. Legolas found his back pressed against a sturdy torso, a gloved hand restraining his head against a solid chest as the other massaged his neck vigorously. And a face was there above him, shrouded in magnificently familiar beard of autumn fire, the cracks of mirth about the eyes tight with anxiety under the thick iron helm. "Easy, Lad! Easy!"

But he was still choking, still unable to get enough air through. He was trapped in the river again, and he was drowning. It would win, he was dying, and he was boundlessly afraid –

"Come on, Elf! Legolas, I beg you, breathe! _Breathe_!"

Gimli held Legolas' eyes, compelling him through sheer will to simply be himself again, the strong and proud elvish princeling he had grown to regard with such fondness. But the elf continued to strain and fight, an awful and desperate rasping sound coming from his vividly bruised throat. But his eyes … their panicked pain pleaded with him for release from his torment, and there was nothing Gimli could do…

The thought that Legolas was dying in his arms was sudden and hard. After everything they had gone through to get him back, all the heartache and uncertainty, and he might still be lost to them. The helplessness it wrought in the dwarf was a thing unparalleled by anything he had ever experienced. And when his friend continued to struggle and gasp, Gimli's powerlessness vented itself in a plea he knew could not be answered: "_Aragorn!_"

-(())-

Gimli's desperate cry for aid speared through the sharp biting of steal. But Aragorn could not spare him more than a panicked prayer.

The days of heartache and worry coupled with the nights of scant sleep and weariness of battle were telling on him as the Uruk tested his strength to its furthest reaches. His sword was heavier than he remembered and his muscles moved with the aggressive burn of fatigue. But there was something new to Aragorn's fight now, something instilled in him by finding Legolas alive … he did not fight for the memory of a friend forever lost, but for the life of that same friend found, and he would not fail him, not again. There was no grace to his fight, no reflection of the elvish battle prowess drilled into him many years ago, but a raw and desperate power, forcing its way through his body to stand against that which would take Legolas from him again.

His sword arced into the scimitar's horizontal swipe and swatted it aside, only for the thing to come back round again with a tireless might and their blades met _again_ and locked together. Aragorn was suddenly far closer than he ever wanted to be as they tried to throw each other off balance, close enough to smell the decay of civilisation that brought this creature to existence, close enough to see the merciless evil relishing watching him struggle through those loathsome eyes –

His vision filled with the Uruk's descending head and there was a sickening crunch and a white explosion of pain when the broad forehead smacked into his nose. The blinding agony rested his attention for too long, and he was hefted from his feet in a mirror image of Legolas, high and kicking …

-(())-

Legolas could feel the dwarvish strength behind him: solid as the rocks Gimli adored, and as wonderfully alive as the trees Legolas cherished. Though the heartbeat against his back was faster than normal, elevated by both physical exertion and fear, it was constant and strong, and Legolas anchored himself to it, the great lifesong of the earth made tangible. He strained against his own desperation in an attempt to mirror the steadier patterns Gimli illustrated to him, feeling the great bellows push and relax into his back. He writhed with the effort and pain of it, but ever there was the song of the earth reverberating through his back … and his choking lulled into an aggressive coughing fit.

"That's it," Gimli sighed, relief spilling from his eyes to twitch his beard into a smile. Legolas still strained, but he breathed, and that was all Gimli could ask of him. "Well done, Laddie. Well done. He Keep it steady, now. Easy, easy."

-(())-

Lurtz was in his element.

Mannish blood peppered his face and the tang of elvish life ran over his tongue. The man he would slay. The dwarf would be no obstacle … and the elf he could tear apart in his own time. He was bigger and stronger, birthed in the very pits of Isengard and powered by the might of his birthplace, and he could feel it blistering through him as he lifted the ranger and flung his worthless hide across the forest floor -

There was no way that Lurtz could know of the perils Aragorn had faced trying to keep up with his elven brothers as a child. Nor could he know that the man he sought to crush had been forced to master the art of falling whilst trying to chase through the treetops. He was older and more sensible now, and his body did not respond nearly as well to such violent shifts, but his learned reflex saved him from a more damaging collision with the earth…

Aragorn lay still where his body stopped, the raw copper of his blood mingling with the scent of disturbed leaf mould. The sound of his enemy advancing on him with a sure stride resounded through the dirt under his face. He must look like a thing defeated, but he was primed.

When Lurtz twisted his clawed hand into the wool cloak and hauled his limp victim only partially upright, he did not expect the sudden snap of the ranger's muscles to action, or the sweep of the sword as his prey turned on him in a last leap of defiance. His face remained a frozen vision of that surprise when his parted head spun to the forest floor itself.

Nothing moved.

A reeling moment of complete silence, numbing and new, and it was as though the forest dared not breathe. Aragorn's muscles retained their readiness and his sword remained in his hands … but there was no-one left to fight. His searching eyes did not sight any further enemies besides the felled corpses littering the ground. The trees did not seethe with nightmarish plagues of orcs, nor did they reverberate with bellows of Black Speech. There was a heavy miasma hanging in the air, the memory of their foul stench that the trees would remember for many long years yet, but little else.

Aragorn's chest heaved with weary relief, feeling his inaction allow new aches and hurts to demand his attention. But he could not stay still and listen to them, not right now:

The leg he had allowed to take the brunt of his fall was already stiffening and ached horribly, but he still forced it into a run, because there was no physical pain now that would keep him from whom he wanted – whom he _needed _– to be with.

Ever since losing him to the river, every waking moment and otherwise for Aragorn had been hounded with separate visions of Legolas. No matter how forceful he had been in his conviction that Legolas lived, every twisted image in his head had shown him his friend lifeless and alone. His heart needed to see that Legolas had survived, that he could speak and move and laugh as he had always done. That he would shake everything off with the flash of a wry grin and a sharp quip.

But as he slowed to a halt beside his two friends, he could see that what his heart wanted and what was reality were two completely different things. Grief and relief battled inside him and forced Aragorn to his knees, and there was nothing he could do save pull his dear friend into his arms. He breathed deeply of the wool cloak pressing so tightly to him, smelling river water and blood and earth.

"Aragorn-" Legolas pulled to escape his embrace. Aragorn let him go, but he could not deny that his feelings were spurned by Legolas' seeming desperation to be free of him. But alarm took over when he looked into Legolas' face and saw the barely bridled panic there, battling in his fever-bright eyes to be heard-

Legolas struggled to rise -"The _periannath_, they have taken the _periannath-_" A sharp cry and he fell back into Gimli's chest, his teeth clenched tight enough to shatter. His heel spurred deep ruts into the earth, his tightly closed eyes sealing out Aragorn's own panicked stare as he attempted to ride out his pain. "They've taken them," he pressed through his teeth. Legolas panted shallow pulls of air in an effort to control the agony, but his head was swimming. "They've taken-" Another strangled cry sheered through his words and any control Legolas had was spiralling beyond his grasp -

"Calm yourself!" Horrified, Aragorn pressed a hand firmly into Legolas' chest, forcing him to lie back. "Gimli, hold his shoulders - be calm, Legolas! Slow your breathing!"

But the state of turmoil in which Legolas was embroiled chained him to panic and desperation. It was a trap his pain would not let him escape, and no words of Aragorn's could reach through that encroaching wall. He opened his eyes and the world was blocked into discordant colours again, dark and distorted and shifting in nauseating swells -

There was a touch. The gentle press of hands he knew well to the sides of his face. Legolas knew the sure firmness and calloused touch of old, and he trusted it, trusted it beyond any other. _Estel_. His right hand found Aragorn's wrist and held on, finding strength where he had none.

"Estel … Estel, please. The _periannath…_"

Aragorn felt his face pale when he actually _listened_ and a twist of fear knotted his gut. "They have the Ring?"

Legolas shook his head. "I bid Sam take Frodo before the attack. But the young ones…" Legolas prised his eyes open. The surrounding world was comprised of blotches of light and dark shapes out of his powers of recognition. But he could see Aragorn, shrouded in a haze of what Legolas could only see as dark light. His grey eyes were trapped in webs of new stress lines, and it seemed that they were gouged deep into his skin. The exiled King of Men, scarred beyond his years.

And that _look_ Aragorn was giving him, so rich in love and worry when Legolas knew he deserved neither, was more than the elf could stand, and he shuttered his eyes against that boundless affection.

"What of Boromir?"

Legolas shied at the question._ He is dead._ _I killed him. _The words trapped themselves against the roof of his mouth, and he could not bring himself to answer. He shook his head, feeling the despair grab at his heart. _Do not make me say it…_

Aragorn would not be so easily denied.

"_Legolas_," he pressed urgently. "What of Boromir?"

When Legolas finally looked at him again, still no words breached the silence … but there was a new note to his pained eyes, something that channelled deep into their heart, and Aragorn knew. _Oh no_… His hands fell to his lap and he felt sorrow twist in the corners of his mouth. "Where?"

Still Legolas did not reply, but his gaze drifted just beyond Aragorn's shoulder. Aragorn paused a moment to gather himself and left without a word, but not before giving Legolas' forearm a light touch…

It surprised and shamed Aragorn that he and Gimli had sprinted past Boromir's body and not noticed him. The power of battle and drive to save their friend had rendered both of them blind to all else about them, and he was sorry when he came to his knees once again beside another friend…

He was laid awkwardly, the proud son of Gondor. His final fall had twisted his form, bullying his body into a contorted and graceless shape in which Aragorn could not stand to see him. The ranger carefully angled Boromir to lie fully on his back, and his heart cried that his body still radiated the warmth of life, his limbs still supple. And that was the hardest thing for Aragorn to stomach: had he and Gimli arrived but a few minutes earlier, they would likely be four rather than three.

The touch of death to Boromir's face was clear in his pallor, but his skin was not otherwise tainted. Not so much as a scratch marked him. His clear green eyes stared beyond Arda with a crease of confusion and surprise about them, as though the reason for the failure of his body was a mystery to him. But the answer was right there at the corner of his mouth, stark red against his white skin.

Aragorn's gaze travelled down Boromir's chest to where the dark colouring of the fine leather and cloth became wet. Such a lot of blood, yet he could not see a wound: no great slash marred Boromir's body as the killing blow for a man so powerful, no evidence of a terrible and clear act of violence against him; the blood could quite easily belong to someone else. Aragorn analysed Boromir's tunic more closely … and then he saw it, the neat parting in the saturated cloth:

It was nothing more than two inches across, a perfect slit in the material just under the arc of Boromir's ribcage. Aragorn carefully parted the cloth to see the wound that had taken down the elder son. It was nothing more than a line of parted flesh, committed by a sharp and not overly large blade. He had seen such fatal wounds before, but never so cleanly executed. The severing of the major blood passages anywhere in the body would be enough to take life, but few could do so as quickly as those running through the trunk to and from the heart. He had seen men succumb to death mere moments after suffering such a wound before, and it was clear that Boromir was no exception.

"My eyes tell me 'tis true, but my heart does not want to listen."

Aragorn did not turn at Gimli's quiet utterance. "We were too late for him." He reached a bloodied hand to Boromir's eyes and closed them, shutting the cruelty of the world out that he might find peace at last. "We were too late for him a long time ago."

-(())-

The Argonath loomed in the distance, shrouded in haze like the summits of sculpted mountains. To the man stood on the shore, they were a towering reminder of his own failures and those of his blood before him. That he saw them now for the first time with their great backs to him said more than he wanted to dwell on.

It was Gimli who had found the tracks of the boat scudding down to the water's edge and traced it back to the overhang. The sticky green mud where the decaying vessels were moored was churned into a sludgy mess, holding the prints of hobbit feet in stiff casts. The tracks belonged to two, for which Aragorn was grateful: Frodo and Sam had escaped, even if the others had not, and with them, the Ring. Frodo and Sam were beyond them now, and despite himself, Aragorn felt a sense of selfish relief: the Ring's polluting whispers would edge their way into his dreams no longer. It saddened him beyond words that it had succeeded with Boromir where it had failed with him.

His bones groaned at him as he crouched at the water's edge. He was weary to his core, but there was no level of rest Aragorn could grant himself now, not when Legolas needed him. He submerged his stained hands into the clean cold of the river, watching the blood and filth plume and eddy away from his skin into the obscurity of the water. So much blood, and hardly a drop of it his own… The cold bit deep into his flesh, but it was a good cold, crisp and cleansing, and found himself gaining a thin pleasure from it as he massaged a dog-eared hunk of soap into his hands. So engrossed was he in watching the suds jitter and twitch with the current on the river surface, Aragorn barely registered Gimli's approach…

"They have taken the oars with them."

Had their course not been diverted for them, Aragorn would have considered Gimli's observation as a major setback … but Fate had decided otherwise. "Frodo's path and ours no longer follow the same line."

Stunned silence, before: "You mean to say we do not even _try_?"

Still his hands distracted him, ingrained dirt tracing the whirls and dips of his fingerprints. If he ever got to have a quiet life, he did not think his hands would ever be clean. An impatient noise from Gimli, and he realised he was ignoring his friend. Aragorn flicked the water from his hands and stood to face his companion wearily. "How? How do we do that, Gimli, hmm? This is the Anduin, not some drainage ditch we can leap! And what of Legolas?" He stopped himself going any further, reining in the threatening anger. He was so tired now, and what he was preparing to put Legolas through was more than he thought he could stand.

"Then that's it, then." Gimli turned his eyes across the wide waters, sighting the prow of the taken boat just within the treeline. "All we have been through, everyone we have lost, and for naught." The dwarf scrubbed at his face wearily. "Such a grand plan, and nothing to show for it but soot and ash."

Aragorn's heart tinged with sympathy at Gimli's open dejection. He knew the sense of failure his companion felt … but he would not let it take him, not now. He gripped his friend's shoulder, as much to steady himself as a reminder to Gimli that he was still here, that there was still a Fellowship whilst they were together. "It was always a desperate idea, Gimli. We must keep fighting for what we have left."

Gimli sighed. "Aye, lad." He offered Aragorn half a smile. "Damn your persistence."

Aragorn laughed. "It is perhaps a little more forced than I would like."

"Hmm." Gimli shuffled, a hue of discomfort stiffening his stance. A leaden mood dragged on his voice when he next spoke: "The elf seems to be in a bad way."

The thin veneer of mirth Aragorn's face had worn cracked away. He pushed his gaze back over the water, but Gimli could still see the heart-deep worry in the hard set of his jaw. Aragorn shook his head. "I fear for him, Gimli. He has pushed himself too far. There is fever in his eyes, and I can tell you now without looking that his side is infected. It must be cleaned, and whatever else he has managed to do to himself must be tended -"

"His arm is broken, I can tell you that."

Aragorn cursed under his breath. He had not seen. Wordlessly, Aragorn gathered up his skins and headed back into the trees, trying to install the mental brace he would need to carry through his tasks.

-(())-

When they came back to Legolas again, Aragorn's heart quailed to see him. Legolas had worked himself into the paltry shelter the beech bowl offered, pressing his back to the silvered trunk and keeping very still, a vulnerable hunting cat striving to go unnoticed. His frame held the tense quiver of such a creature driven too hard into the barest threads of his strength, stranded in a pit and surrounded by foes from whom he could not escape.

But his eyes … Legolas clearly fought to focus them. Even just keeping them open was taking more effort than it should, but the struggle was like watching two candles gutter and pitch against a gale. Their shard-like edge was gone, dulled down by constant pain and consuming weariness, and the healer in Aragorn recognised the bare truth of what he was seeing.

Yet, despite the clarity of his discomfort, Legolas still managed to fix Aragorn with a disbelieving look as the ranger set his pack down and started to clear leaves to make a fire well.

"What are you doing?"

"You need a healer. We go no further until you are tended."

Aragorn could feel Legolas' stare burning at the top of his head as he constructed his fire, but he would not bend to it. A battle of wills was brewing, a battle he had fought many times before. Granted, Legolas often won, but Aragorn would not allow it, not this time. Tinder was plentiful, and before long, he had a small yet strong fire snapping away at the dry sticks and hunks of old wood with all the avarice of a dog worrying scrap bones. Still refusing Legolas so much as a glance, Aragorn set his tins at the edge of the flames, carefully selecting various dried leaves and herb pouches from his pack and emptying the skins over them.

"A merry dance you've lead us on, Elf," Gimli admonished as he dumped himself unceremoniously beside Aragorn's fire, though the comment was softened with affection.

Legolas cocked his head at the remark, but had no answer it. His focus was with Aragorn alone. "But what of the _perianath_?"

"We will pursue them when you are treated."

Legolas snorted disparagingly. "Then we will be too late," he said bitterly. "Leave me here."

"No."

"Aragorn, I am telling you: _leave me here_!"

"I have said no, Legolas, and let that be an end to it." The authority he heard in Aragorn's tone was old. It made Legolas fall into silence, and he was back in his grandfather's library three millennia ago, being reprimanded like a child in front of the lords of the Alliance. When Aragorn did lift his eyes to his, anger swirled their silver depths with a darker shade.

"Do not dare ask that of me again, Legolas. Do not _dare_: I thought I had lost you before, and I will not lose you again to some absurd request." The ranger turned those angered eyes to his pack as his hands deftly sifted for something-

"So you will let the Fellowship fail?" Legolas bit back acidly, finding strength in his own mounting anger to fling the words at his friend. "For my sake, you will betray everything we have fought for?"

Aragorn stopped. He fixed Legolas with an unwavering stare, unfazed by the glare being thrown back at him in return. It was a look he had endured before, and it was testament to Legolas' waning strength that it was nothing more than a faded shadow of its usual power. "There is a brooch at your throat. There have only ever been eight people to wear them, and seven living wear them still. Whether you like it or not, Legolas, yours is identical to those of the _perianath_. Do not try to tell me of my duty when you are as much a part of it as they are."

"But I cannot do what you ask, Aragorn!" The words came close to a wail, a switch of emotion from the mask of anger to the despair beneath. "I cannot -" Legolas gasped when the agony in his side peaked at his heightened agitation. A steadying hand pressed against his chest, pinning him against the support of the tree.

"Calm down, lad!" Gimli. He had all but forgotten Gimli's presence…

His world was closing on him, binding him to all the hurts his body suffered. The elves despised weakness, and Legolas was no exception. But he was the embodiment of it now: he could not move without hurt, and no matter how strong his will, he had not the strength even to rise. And now the others were tying themselves to him willingly, as tightly as he was bound to the earth. Frustration clawed its way from Legolas' throat in a dark and guttural cry that further exacerbated his wound.

"Legolas." Aragorn's voice, riding over Legolas' frustration and pain, empty of any trace of anger but full of the steadiness and strength that was so typical of him. "I will not abandon the _perianath_, but I will _not_ leave you behind. I will treat your wounds and do whatever is necessary to see that you are well. If needs be, I will carry you to the far corners of Arda myself. Is that clear?"

Legolas clenched his jaw and looked away, weary and forlorn. There was not enough left of him to hold his resolve against such an unmoving wall of determination. He would not grace Aragorn with so much as a glance, but his head dipped once in acquiescence.

"Good." Aragorn smiled, inwardly sagging with relief. "That is good. Now. Let me see your arm."

Aragorn did not like the angle of Legolas' hand as he cradled it against his stomach. He knew the problem was not with the hand itself, but with the forearm. It must be reset, and immediately: elves healed too fast to allow for hesitancy, and if Legolas wished to pull a bow again, it had to be done there and then. Legolas stiffened, but did not resist him as Aragorn gently lifted his arm from his protective hold, nor did he move when he carefully started to remove the archer's brace.

"Where is your quiver, Legolas?" he asked quietly, dropping the tie from the hooks and allowing the supple leather wrap to open of its own accord. Aragorn carefully discarded the brace. His healer's hands could feel the snapped bones within the vividly bruised and inflamed flesh. He felt the angle of the breaks, the sharpness of the splintered ends. Putting them back into place would require great care to get it right on the first attempt, and by the Valar, it was going to hurt. A low rumble of fury that even an orc could do such a thing to another living creature heated his blood, and he knew a thin moment of justice that he had been the one to relieve the damnable filth of his life.

"An archer without a bow is less than useless," Legolas stated succinctly, taking great care to not look at what Aragorn did. "What good is a quiver with nothing to hold? No bow, no arrows. I lost -" The sentence snapped and Legolas did not try to pick it up again. He kept his head aside, carefully avoiding his companions and taking a shaking breath.

The ranger did not speak as he drew the twin knives from the back of his belt and laid them carefully beside their owner's thigh. The soft music of steel to steel as they settled against one another was the only declaration of their presence, a pair of loyal returning hounds nudging their master's hands. _We are here, we are one._

Legolas stilled. He did not breathe. Even the angry throb of his injured arm stopped a moment in Aragorn's single hold. When he turned his head slowly to look at them, his face was fearful, frightened by the appearance of what he thought to be impossible. Still he did not move, but an ache of shattered hope changed his eyes. It was not what Aragorn had expected. Legolas looked more broken in that moment than Aragorn had ever thought possible of him. Finally the elf shook his head. "No … this is some cruel deception. This is an evil dream."

Aragorn smiled. "There is no deception here, my friend," he said gently. "They are real."

There was not a single occasion Aragorn could remember when Legolas had ever called the knives his own. They were always "_Baerahir's _knives", "my _brother's_ knives". They were never his, never Legolas'. Even after three thousand years, Legolas had not let go of his grief for his brother. These two blades, identical to the last detail, were love and death. They were beautiful and terrible, the final vestige of his brother that remained to him. Aragorn could not imagine Legolas' pain when he discovered their loss, but he saw something of it now as the open tears tracked through the dirt and blood, reaching over with his other hand to brush trembling fingertips over the bone hilt of one knife.

A sob ripped from him, coloured bright by an incredulous laugh, but Legolas was not shamed by it. "Estel…" His head shook in disbelief. "They were gone, and I…" Shaking fingers enveloped a hilt. The weight, the age-old smoothness under his skin, the colder starkness of the filigree against the relative warmth of the bone … they were the same as the last time he had wielded them. Nothing had changed for them, yet so much had for him. They had seen so much during their lifetime, so very much, and he could not help but wonder what they had witnessed during their time away from his keeping. Where had they been, when they were between his possession and his friend's belt?

"Where did you find them?" By the river somewhere, was all Legolas could imagine. His quiver had been so badly mauled by the river's harsh treatment that it had become irreparably disfigured, and he had given it to the water. Legolas had to acknowledge that he probably owed it his life: whichever boulder had broken his shoulder would have shattered his back instead had it not been for the gift of the Lady. But it had not saved Baerahir's knives, and that was a failure he could not forgive.

A shadow passed over Aragorn's eyes, and something changed in the set of his mouth. "Worry not of that for the moment." Legolas frowned at the darker tinge he sensed to Aragorn's mood and looked at the blade in his hand anew. Something had happened, something with the knives, and whatever it was had affected him deeply. It was like there was a scar there, harsh and new, and Aragorn was trying to hide it, very much in the same way Legolas himself had for so long. "Estel?"

The ranger smiled at him, a cover that quaked and trembled as it tried to reach into his eyes. "Later, Legolas. Now if you don't mind, I'd ask you to put that down," Aragorn requested with wry a grin. "I know your reflexes, and I'd hoped for a death a bit more glorious than being gutted trying to reset a broken arm."

There was no immediate acceptance of the request, and Aragorn thought for a moment that Legolas would deny it, but he reluctantly lowered the knife to join its twin. Without needing to be asked, Gimli manoeuvred himself behind Legolas' left shoulder and gripped it in a double hold, pinning him against the tree and flatly ignoring the narrowed eyes glaring at him. "Think yourself lucky, Elf," Gimli commented dryly. "Were you a horse, you'd be going in a stew."

The remark was just enough to distract the archer from looking at what Aragorn was doing. There was enough pride left in him to bristle with indignation at Gimli's black humour as the dwarf smirked into his beard. "Perhaps I should break your arm, and see how lucky _you_ feel."

"Gentlemen, please," Aragorn reprimanded distractedly. He supported the arm with one hand and ran the other carefully over the angered flesh once more. If this was not done right, the consequences would be dire. He detected the separate breaks again, assessing the levels of pressure and angling required to re-align the two pieces. Settling on a course of action, Aragorn lifted his eyes to Legolas, and discovered he was being watched intently. "Are you ready?"

Legolas narrowed his eyes. "Are you?"

Aragorn sighed with exasperation. "That is not an answer."

"Did you count that as a question?"

The ranger shook his head to himself. "If I ever hear a straight answer from you, I will think I've lost my mind." He consciously shifted his perspective from the worried friend to the controlled healer, a man who caused pain through necessity and possessed the skill to turn deaf when needed.

The afternoon was starting to wax. The peppery scents of leaves and damp earth were taking on the spicier edge of a forest coming to night. Despite the destruction that lay beneath the towering eaves, it was as though the forest was already recovering from the violence that had occurred within it, as some of the birds eventually decided it was safe enough to edge from hiding and sing their threats to the cooling air. Aragorn drew a sense of peace from it and centred himself as he positioned his hands, pausing to check his grip above and below the splintered ends - and pulled.

The cry that shredded the peace scattered the few brave birds in a chorus of alarmed shrieks. Legolas jolted back against Gimli's hold so violently the dwarf was almost shunted off balance. Unlike Gimli, Aragorn had been expecting such a reaction. He moved with him, maintaining his tight grasp above the break and refusing to release his hold as he tried to manoeuver the broken ends within. The contracted muscles surrounding the bones were nearly enough to completely hinder what he did, but with a deft twist, he heard the grinding of broken ends coming together over the stream of Sindarin curses.

Aragorn merely raised a brow at the strength of Legolas' continuing coarse language as he ran his hands once more over the arm, assessing his work carefully. Only when he deemed the bones properly aligned did he use the last of the same salve used on Merry's throat in an attempt to sooth the pain and inflammation. The brace was tied back in place and overlapped with its fellow: the leather was soft and old, but the support it offered would be enough for now.

"Well," said Gimli. "I have to say, I had no idea you had such a shining vocabulary, lad! What was that last one again? _Ūnc_-"

"Never mind that," Aragorn cut in, not really wanting Gimli to know exactly _what_ he had just been called. "How does your arm feel, Legolas?"

"Like you've broken it again," was the short reply. Legolas reclaimed his limb and cradled it protectively from the threat of Aragorn's further interference. "I'd hoped you might become gentler with age."

This was an old exchange. The number of times they had reset each other's broken limbs was beyond the memories of both of them, but Legolas grew no less resentful each time … or any more grateful. "If you would stop breaking your arms, Elf, there would not be an issue," Aragorn returned.

Legolas snorted and leaned his head back into his tree, a ghost of a grin twitching his lips. "So says the healer, who's perfect hide I've had to salvage more times than I care to recall."

The gentle biting was good for both of them, a distraction from the awfulness that awaited … but as Legolas fell quiet and shut his eyes, a pained frown dipping his brow as he tried to draw deliberate and steadying breaths, Aragorn knew they could tarry no longer. The multiple water tins were steaming to a satisfactory level now, more ready to do their work than Aragorn would ever be. He spread his own cloak on the ground, sorting various pots from his pack onto its dry expanse.

Aragorn's fingers brushed against a small phial as he reached for a pouch of dried _athelas _in his pack. His hand paused in a moment of indecision … broken bones hurt, but what Legolas was about to endure would make resetting his arm seem a trivial thing. The level of the pain relief contained in that phial was high, and certainly strong enough to help against even Legolas' pain. But such powerful medicines did not come without a price, and Aragorn feared that Legolas did not possess the strength to withstand the side-effects.

"I need you to lie on your right."

Legolas opened his eyes at Aragorn's voice and looked briefly confused, as though he had no recollection of closing them. "You want me to lie on my broken shoulder?"

"_On your_-? Valar preserve me!" Aragorn exclaimed with more than a touch of exasperation. "You never _said_ anything about a broken shoulder!"

"To what purpose?" Legolas demanded snappily, his mood turning on a knife tip. "There is nothing to be done for it, so why bother?"

"Because had I known," said Aragorn with forced patience, unfazed by Legolas' cantankerous attitude, "I would have been less liberal with the salve!" He shook his head openly at Legolas' foolishness and fetched one of his tins from the fireside, checking the colour before pouring the fragrant contents into a skin and presenting it to his friend. "Drink this."

Legolas gave the skin a flat look. "I don't want it."

"Do not be facetious. You don't even know what it is."

"Which is precisely why I don't want it."

Aragorn resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Ribwort and staunchweed tea with a bit of honey, nothing more sinister than that. The herbs are good for bleeding, and the honey complies with your sweet tooth. You at least agree with the honey, yes?"

The archer looked unhappy about it, but he accepted the brew all the same and drank, grimacing at the protests of his abused throat. Those first swallows, though pained, clearly reminded his body that he had not drunk for too long, and the skin was drained before he could think about the heat of the liquid. No sooner had he dropped his hand then the flask was removed from his lax grip, and it was with no small measure of dread that Aragorn slipped one hand under Legolas' arm and the other under his legs-

Legolas tensed.

Aragorn stopped, knowing the height of his own trepidation and understanding that it could be little more than a shadow compared to what Legolas must feel. In the end, it was of no consequence how they felt towards the eventuality: if Legolas was to survive, it had to happen. "Legolas," Aragorn implored. "_Saes_, mellon nin." _Trust me enough to do this._

For a long moment, the tension under Aragorn's hands remained … but eventually, reluctantly, Legolas sagged at his friend's plea. Much had passed between them over the years, but never before had Legolas so completely laid his pride aside at _anyone's_ request, and for Aragorn, that was humbling. Legolas refused to look at either of his companions as the ranger manoeuvred his body into the required position, clearly shamed that even this, the simplest of tasks, was completely beyond him. Pain flared in his eyes at the movement, but he refused to give it voice.

The bole of the beech was deep and cupped, massive supporting roots offering their embrace like loving arms, and it was this structure that leant itself to Aragorn's purpose. Legolas' head was supported enough by one extension of live wood, his back pressing into the deep curve. It offered support, and it provided a trap.

Awkwardness was not a sensation Gimli was used to. He hovered, his hands floating near Legolas' shoulders in a suspended desire to help, but he did not venture to touch him. He himself was a proud creature, and he understood that he had just borne witness to the rarest of things. It surprised him to find that the respect he held for the archer was so high. On an equal level, it amazed him how saddening he found seeing Legolas in such a vulnerable state. The fire of his spirit was so clearly dampened that even the anger that could rip from him was vastly preferable to this. "We could get you drunk," Gimli ventured.

Legolas kept his eyes straight over the forest floor with its mess of orcish corpses. "There is not enough drink in the whole of Arda to deaden this to me," Legolas said tightly.

Gimli inwardly flinched at the implication of his friend's words, but kept it shielded from Legolas' awareness. "I have some rather fine blackberry brandy I might let you have."

"I do not think a tot of brandy will have the desired effect, Gimli," Aragorn remarked through his concentration as he cooled the contents of one of his water tins.

Gimli huffed in prideful disbelief. "Trust me when I say, Aragorn, that this is no elven maid's flowery wine. _This _is _Gravlatt_, distilled in the caverns of my home. The very finest of our drinks and a traditional accompaniment to the celebration of the greatest triumphs. Many a victory has been toasted with a swig of this, and many a tooth pulled with a bottle." His chest puffed at his hereditary claim. "No elf can drink this and keep his senses."

It was Aragorn's turn to snort as he banked clean leaves into Legolas' stomach. "Clearly, you have never tried to out-drink an elf before."

Legolas' lips tipped, just a fraction. "Aragorn can tell you what happens when mortals try to out-drink elves." There was a dance of teasing mirth in Legolas' quiet tone, a whisper of his better self, and though Aragorn growled at the mischievous reference, he felt a secret swell of gratitude that Legolas should feel well enough to quip at his burned pride.

"Blast soot!" Gimli scoffed. "I call that a challenge, Elf, and I accept."

Amusement peppered Legolas' reply. "Very well, _Dwarf_: if you wish to be humiliated, then so be it." But Legolas fell silent when he felt the material at his side shift. It tugged against his skin, it was stuck to him, and Legolas receded into himself, focusing his attention across the forest again…

Aragorn cursed under his breath at his discovery: the mess that was Legolas' jerkin and shirt was completely saturated with blood both fresh and old, and had sealed to wound and skin when the blood had dried. He trickled the water over it, watching the stiffened fabrics painfully slowly swell and lift -

Fire, Aragorn was pouring fire over him. There was nothing he could do to restrain the strangled gasp as his body went rigid, fingers gouging into the earth in a futile effort to dissipate the pain. The need to escape surged through him and he tried to rise –

"Easy, lad, easy," Gimli soothed, placing what he could only hope was a comforting hand on the elf's shoulder. "Steady now."

When the cloth finally relented its merciless grip, the sight that met Aragorn's eyes made his heart quail, and even Gimli, stalwart as he was, could not help but blanch. The ranger sighed, shaking his head with despair. "Ai, Legolas. What have you done to yourself?"


	16. Chapter Sixteen: The Bonds We Make

Just a quick note to say many thanks, as always, to everyone who has taken the time to review the story so far. Thank you for your support; it's nice to hear those coins clinking in that old hat! My very special thanks goes - again - to Myselfonly, who so very kindly took the time to read through this chapter for me, despite the fact that I kind of _launched_ it on her. Any mistakes in here are of my making.

Enjoy, and kindly take a moment to tell me what you think!

* * *

><p>Chapter Sixteen: The Bonds We Make<p>

_He was barely tall enough to reach his guardian's elbow without stretching, but Elrond had deemed him old enough for his education to begin. He ensured his diminutive pupil accompanied him on all healing matters, from understanding herbs with their healing properties and potential dangers, to treating those in the greatest of need. He saw much from such an early age, but he took each of Elrond's lessons to heart and tried to learn to distance himself from their pain as instructed. Yet of all his tutoring, of hours poring over intimidating tomes of herb lore and absorbing the limitless volumes of information passed from teacher to pupil, that was the one thing he struggled most to master._

_Empathy. Both a beautiful strength and a crippling weakness._

_Each of them marked him in their own way … but there was one that he knew he would never forget: a hunter, lying prone on the white linen of the bed, sweating and hurting. And there was such a lot of blood. He just lay there, alarmingly still and grey like one of Lady Celebrían's statues. His leg had been badly gored by a boar he had disturbed, and though his companions had been on hand, it was long before they managed to get him home. It was a vicious wound, the flesh torn and discoloured. There was blood and sickness, and a smell that anchored itself in Aragorn's memory._

"_Watch,_"_ the Lord of Imladris instructed with his matter-of-fact disengaged authority, as he tied a slip knot above the heavily-bleeding injury. _"_Look into the wound, Estel. See what happens to the blood flow when the cord is tightened -_" _he did so. The hunter screamed and Aragorn shied as the sound tore through the very quick of him. The horror of it, the sheer awfulness of such overwhelming pain, was more than he could stand. But Elrond did not accept such weakness. _"_Do not recoil, Estel! They need your strength when they have none left themselves. Never let them down!_"

-(())-

Legolas' side was a mess. His entire flank was stained an awful matt rust, streaked with bright crimson that glimmered wetly in the late afternoon light. Their foes had not even tried to grant him the honour of a clean death: the wound inflicted by the Nazgûl sword was a long and jagged laceration, more tear than anything else, and it ran deep into his side, cleaving through his two lowest ribs to just above his hip. It was more like some loathsome creature had tried to rip him in half.

And it was not healing. The Eldar healed quicker than all other races … but this was not knitting at all. It oozed thick blood from its awful depths and showed no signs of coming together. The cuts and abrasions to Legolas' face should be nothing more than dark marks to his skin within a day, and completely gone within a week. Even his fractured arm and shoulder should be healed soon. But this, his most serious hurt, was not mending.

There was nothing about this that Aragorn could avoid: this was _his _fault. Legolas was paying heavily for his mistake, and there was no escaping that bare truth. _This _was the physical form in which his failure chose to manifest itself, hacked into his friend's side like some grotesque effort at a mouth, grinning triumphantly at him as it forced him to watch his dearest friend suffer.

The blood loss was greater than any healer would be comfortable with, and the beginnings of a fever stirred deep in the barely concealed misery of Legolas' eyes, triggered by the infection seeping through his veins. They could fight it together, they could rail against it and storm and fight … but they were little more than moths flinging themselves at the walls of a glass jar. Whatever Aragorn did for Legolas now was likely to be too little for him to make a difference. Legolas' outward demeanour of strength was faltering, the real fear he harboured setting a shadow in his eyes that no smile or quip could banish.

And Aragorn was terrified for him.

"I am sorry, Estel." Thin and too quiet, a wisp of smoke compared to the fire of mere minutes ago.

Something crumbled in Aragorn's chest. He had allowed his own pain to show and provoke a sense of guilt in his friend, guilt that he did not deserve and had not the strength to carry. He damned himself harshly for his own weakness, for adding to Legolas' pain when his burden was already so very high.

_Never let them down._

"It is I who am sorry, Legolas. You never deserved this." Aragorn cast Legolas the most fleeting of smiles in an attempt to dissipate the damage he had done, resetting his own walls and carefully re-applying the healer's mask he should never have let slip. _You _never_ deserved this. _Anger roiled and seethed through him, but his healer's hands were steady as he busied himself with steeping the first cloth in _athelas_ water, hiding himself behind the task and allowing the clean scent to wash over his rage and push it aside to deal with later. Aragorn stole a glance at Legolas' face. The pain lines about his eyes were tight, but Legolas' focus was entirely beyond everything around him, staring hard into some place invisible to the man and dwarf. Before he could even begin to look at the wound properly, the surrounding skin must be cleansed. Aragorn raised the cloth…

"It was necessary."

The unexpected statement arrested his attention. Water streamed vocally back into the tin of its own volition from the suspended cloth, playing and laughing in the thrown silence. "_Necessary_?"

When Legolas looked to Aragorn, the shrewd logic with which he judged his own actions was clear in the set of his eyes. "Me, or Frodo and the Ring."

Legolas' eyes flitted to the cloth in Aragorn's hand with a pulse of fearful apprehension, a wounded bird eyeing a snake … but he could not stand to watch as it neared his skin. Not since he had awoken by the river had Legolas looked at what had been done to him, and he could not stomach the notion of seeing it now. And as the cloth made careful contact, he could not help stiffening at the discomfort it elevated in his inflamed flesh. The water was only warm and his burning skin barely noticed, but the soft fibres of the cloth were entirely too harsh, the careful pressure as the grime was steadily cleansed away far too much.

_Push it away_.

"As amusing as I'd find watching a dwarf try to leap a ravine, the idea was not wholly practical at the time." There was a new rigidity to his voice, but he did his best to ignore it, just as he did his best to ignore the discomfort of Aragorn's ministrations.

"Hmph." Their dwarven companion adopted a feigned indignant air, raising his head archly. "And to think I nearly missed you."

"That does not stop me wishing you'd never done it," Aragorn rejoined, blanking Legolas' effort at making light of his situation.

Legolas lowered his head back to the tree root. Aragorn quietly noted the effort such a simple action took. "Then I'll find an easier way to die, if it suits."

Aragorn's hand froze. The memory flared across his mind before he could think to rein it in, and Aragorn found himself standing again on the brink of that crumbling precipice, the savage sense of utter helplessness as he was forced to watch the cursed servants of the Dark Lord tear into one he regarded closer than a brother strangling his heart. He heard that awful scream, just as he knew he would always hear it … and Aragorn saw too clearly that final look of sheer terror on Legolas' face as he was swallowed by the earth's greed and flung into the raging waters below. It was an image scratched into his memory that no span of time could ever fade. He was helpless again, stripped bare of his strength and abandoned to the cold of grief…

"You shouldn't mock, Legolas."

The pain that registered in Aragorn's voice jarred Legolas' humour, and he knew the severity of his error immediately … but sometimes, immediately is not soon enough, and that was all too clear when Aragorn rose, wringing out his cloth and leaving it on his spread cloak, stained beyond recognition and abandoned. Without a word, he took up the empty water skins and made for the river. "We need more water."

"Estel, saes…"

But Aragorn did not pause at Legolas' appeal and disappeared, swallowed by the sneaking darkness being ushered all the faster by the towering trees.

"_Estel!_"

Legolas pushed himself up –

Pain bolted through both side and shoulder. The world spun nauseatingly and his vision blackened with the surges of agony that followed, and he was only dimly aware of being pinned against the tree by a strong hand.

When his senses edged back to their faded clarity, Legolas noticed that Gimli was now right in front of him. The dwarf released a weary sigh, shaking his head heavily at his elven companion as he shuffled a touch closer, all the better to thwart any further foolish attempts, Legolas supposed.

"Eh Legolas, lad; I'd have thought that at least a _little _sensitivity might have penetrated that foolish kurnheim of yours in three thousand years."

Legolas threw a searing glare at the dwarf, but the expression soon collapsed, and he pulled his eyes away to stare skyward with a weighted sigh. He did not have the strength of will nor the heart to focus his anger at his own actions undeservedly on Gimli. The partial face of the early moon peered through the turning leaves above his head, as though curious to ascertain what he was doing there, flush to the bole of a tree like a cornered rabbit. The great orb of light disappeared behind a veil of cloud, bored of such a meaningless and tiny creature so far away. He shook his head at himself in unwitting imitation of Gimli's sad disapproval. "I did not mean anything by it."

"I know you didn't," Gimli said with his own troubled sigh. He fished out his pipe and stuffed it, a habit of difficult times and boredom … but he remembered whose company he was keeping, and packed it away again with a huff. "I'll tell you, Elf," he said, levelling his finger at Legolas. "I've never seen a man fight with grief that strong before, and I honestly thought it was going to be the undoing of him." He paused, listening carefully to the silence, before: "He never gave up on you, you know. Even when we thought you were dead. He never let himself believe you were truly gone."

Legolas regarded Gimli for a time with that penetrating elven stare. It was a softer version of what he had been subjected to before, when elf and dwarf cared not at all for each other and did their level best to be as irksome as possible. "Did you?"

Gimli fell pensive at the quiet question. He did not like his answer when he gave it, and it stunned him to realise he hated himself for it. "Aye, Elf. I did."

He expected anger, the slow burning fury of hurt and betrayal followed by a swift return to their previous condition of traditional loathing. Slight an elf, his father had warned him, and expect it to be returned to you tenfold.

Instead, Legolas closed his eyes again, losing his fight to keep them open.

"I do not hold it against you."

Shock pushed his brows high, and he was almost glad that Legolas had closed his eyes again. Relief flooded through him, and he was stunned by how much the elf had come to mean to him, that his friendship was of such value. When Legolas looked to him again, Gimli just managed to collect himself enough to wipe his face of his pleased surprise … though despite his best efforts, the amused and knowing smile the elf bestowed on him was just a little affectionate, touching his dimmed eyes with a lick of lost brightness.

"I owe you thanks."

Confusion. "For what?"

Legolas shifted a little, only to wince with discomfort and have the pain banish the smile away. His face had a greyness to it that was nothing to do with the waxing daylight, the dark surrounding his eyes overwhelming whatever brilliance might have remained to them and casting them dull. The dwarf found it unfathomably sad.

"For staying with him. Thank you."

_An elf thanking a dwarf? Either I've got at the Gravlatt and not remembered, or he is delusional. _But Gimli had to acknowledge to himself that neither instance was the case. It was an open offering to him, one that did not pass between their people often, and he accepted it willingly. "Yes. Well -" he cleared his throat, feeling the taunting feather of embarrassment touch his cheeks. Gimli recalled the original purpose of their conversation and gave himself a mental shake. "The point is, he never gave up on you. Do not give up on him."

A frown dipped Legolas' abused brow. "I would never give up on Aragorn."

"Perhaps. But you would give up on yourself, and that is the same thing."

Before Legolas could make his reply, the quiet yet sure footfall of a man reached his ears and he fell silent, watching the encroaching darkness for Aragorn's return. When the man did eventually emerge, he gave Legolas nothing more than a heavy look before returning his eyes to his path. Aragorn said nothing as he set the fresh water to heat, tipping the remnants of his dried _athelas_ into the tins, and he kept his silence as took up a fresh cloth…

"Estel-"

"It is fine, Legolas," Aragorn cut in as he resumed his task. "Now be still."

No element of their situation was fine, and the crushed feeling in his chest elevated at Aragorn's flat refusal to listen to his pleas for forgiveness. Legolas also understood that "be still" and "shut up" fell under the same category, and he silently complied as Aragorn commenced with his seemingly endless cleansing.

It took two further tins of water and five cloths before Aragorn was satisfied with his work. Not that what his efforts revealed from under the layers of blood eased his mind… Vivid bruising spanned out from Legolas' broken ribs, dark blights contrasting against the angered red of the flesh surrounding the wound. And now that the skin was clean, Aragorn's attention was honed completely on the enormity of the most serious problem…

Once before, many, _many _years ago, Aragorn had encountered a wound similar in quality to this: the means of infliction were very different, but there were elements that were strikingly familiar … the ripped quality of the tormented flesh, the darkness of infection, the sheer intensity of heat … even the smell that battled so strongly with the purity of the _athelas_. Without its frame of old blood, the wound looked all the more horrific, stark in its darkness against the aggressive red of the surrounding flesh.

There was no doubt in Aragorn's mind that Legolas' blood was poisoned by infection, and it was that threat that played Aragorn's fear more than anything else. Legolas had battled against the pain and mounting weakness wrought by his hurt for a long time. How he had managed to push himself this far, on his own, was beyond Aragorn's comprehension … but he feared the archer had pushed too far to combat the infection. Try as he might to ignore it, Aragorn could see it in his eyes: his cool calm and enduring strength were gone. There was only uncertainty and a deep fear that threatened to spill with the oncoming flood of agony.

Without a word, Aragorn took up Legolas' uninjured wrist. He could feel the elf's pulse flying under his touch, distant and too fast like a swallow caught in a gale. He had hoped that what he would find would be stronger, solid and vibrant despite the wrongs inflicted on him, a true reflection of the Legolas they knew and loved. But this erratic beat was no more than a struggling memory. To give him the poppy milk he truly needed to combat the pain now could be enough to kill him.

"Estel… Estel, im gosta."

Legolas was not a stranger to fear … Aragorn had witnessed it ghost through his eyes in the moment of silence before battle, only to see his courage seize it and bend it into something he could use. It strengthened him. But looking into his eyes now, it was courage that struggled for solid ground, and Aragorn could not fault him for it. His grip changed from the checking hold of a healer to the reassuring tenderness of a friend, and he offered Legolas a wavering smile that he knew did not touch the sadness in his eyes. "I know."

The very best the ranger could do for his friend now was make sure the intensity of suffering he was to deliver was over as soon as possible, and to do that he needed everything prepared and immediately at hand…

"I have visited apothecaries with fewer jars," Gimli remarked, his own tension ringing in his voice.

Aragorn did not reply, his attention fully focused on what he did as he sifted through the various pots and vials laid out on his cloak, discarding some back into his pack with a deft flick of his wrist. Those deemed useful were relieved of their stoppers, their contents quickly inspected and selected from their clay depths.

Gimli was intrigued by the wet flaps of preserved leaves, glistening thickly with oil as they slapped into the small mortar. Some he recognised – he knew the narrow and fibrous leaves of ribwort plantain, and the delicate white flower clusters of yarrow – but the majority of the others were beyond his knowledge, and he could only watch with fascination as the ranger measured the ingredients with a depth of knowledge that seemed to come as second nature. Aragorn plucked a stem of _athelas_ from one of his heated tins and stripped the hot leaves down with finger and thumb. Finally a measure of solid honey from the last pot, and he took up the waiting pestle and pounded down on the contents, churning and grinding everything into a bitter-smelling paste.

Deeming his poultice done, Aragorn reached for Legolas' hand. It was cooler than he recalled. Whether it was through pain or exhaustion or fear that it trembled, the ranger did not know. He gave it a firm squeeze, willing his own strength to reach his friend and hold him steady. _You are not alone. Not anymore._

"Gar bellas, gwador nin." The only response he received was a weak return of their shared grip before Legolas pulled his hand away, lighting his fingertips on the rough silvered skin of the tree root. Legolas fixed his eyes across the forest again, and though clear fear resonated through their hard blue focus, his jaw was firm.

Aragorn looked to his reluctant accomplice. The dread in the dwarf's beetling eyes was not completely obscured by those bushy brows, but he dipped his head to Aragorn nonetheless: he might not be prepared, but he was as ready as he could ever be.

_The healer is deaf,_ Aragorn recited to himself. _The healer is strong._ The tools he would use were spread out on his cloak waiting for him, but he could barely stand to look at them. With a steadying breath, he picked the first one up, the clean cold of the steel handle icy to his touch._ Have strength._ _Gar bellas…_

_Ai, Legolas_… Aragorn would have shaken his head with sad despair, save he dared not do something so drastic for fear of his knife slipping. The lengthy wound before him was riddled with fragments of stone and dirt. So many tiny particles that must be removed. Carefully, methodically, Aragorn caught up the tiny pieces of stone…

Legolas' nails scarred the silver bark when they gouged into it, completely heedless of how they themselves tore. The sudden and pure agony rent through his side and ripped into the rest of him with the savagery of a crazed wolf. Some small and distant part of him told him he should be still, that this was necessary and unavoidable, and he could hear a gruff voice near him reiterating those sentiments in a constant rolling timbre. Hands restrained his shoulders, firm and unyielding.

_Gar bellas, gar bellas, gar bellas…_

And he thought that he could … he would do this, not for himself, but for Aragorn, because Aragorn had asked it of him.

_Gar bellas, gar bellas, gar -_

But when the scraping started inside him, Legolas' thin control was lost. It was not even pain anymore. He was being flayed into pieces and scattered wide over black flames -

A sharp glint beneath Legolas' fractured ribs caught Aragorn's eye, black and angular, and when he properly looked at it he felt his face drain -

Something drove hard into Aragorn's back and flung him sideways. His knee skimmed the earth as he only just succeeded in catching his balance, and he all but threw himself back to his friend's side, pressing down into the elf's ribs with a bloodied hand as Legolas bucked and strained. He could do nothing but watchwith horror as blood swelled to fill Legolas' wound, a dangerously deep pool … and when he searched frantically for the shard, it was swallowed from his sight.

_Eru, no!_

"Stille nu, Legolas, an ngell nîn!" But Legolas was deaf to Aragorn's plea, the power of his torment driving reason out and investing everything he had left into fighting to escape. Aragorn shunted his weight onto his hip and against Legolas' thighs, pitching his strength into pinning him to the solidity of the tree. It was not enough. "Gimli - _hold him!_"

"_I'm trying!_"

The dwarf shifted one hand down to the elf's chest and kept the other to his shoulder and leaned his full weight into him. Legolas fought, his eyes wild and teeth bared in a fierce grimace, but he was not strong enough to throw their combined hold.

Gimli was a hardened warrior. He had seen much of pain in war, but never had he been required to be so close to it. Never had he held a companion down as they tried to flee from inescapable agony, and never had he felt a heart so desperate for release under his hand. Never had he forced anyone to endure such awfulness. "What fuss over a little scratch, eh?" Gimli said, trying to distract the elf from the fight he still insisted on putting himself through. Even to him, his voice sounded a lost and powerless thing, and it did not surprise him that Legolas failed to rise to the bait.

Aragorn knew this was not good enough. The frantic desperation of Legolas' pain was too great for him and Gimli to counter with strength alone. He knew too well what he had seen, and the fact that it had disappeared from his sight instilled more terror in his heart than the darkest servants of Sauron ever could. If Legolas fought against them with such a violent burst of power again, there was no doubt in his mind that the thing would kill him.

Daring to trust in Gimli enough to relinquish his own pinning hold on Legolas' chest, Aragorn thrust a bloodied hand into his pack and retrieved a small muslin parcel. One handed, he dripped three drops of pure alcohol into the cloth, and pressed it over Legolas' mouth and nose without pause. Alarm flared in the elf's eyes and he tried to pull his head away, but the heavy panting induced by his fit of blind panic forced him to inhale the vapours. His erratic breathing stalled and juddered into a steadier, calmer rhythm, and his bid to throw his companions ebbed away into nothing more than trembling tension.

Gimli could not deny the feeling of selfish gratitude when the elf finally ceased his struggle … but he did not understand when Aragorn removed the parcel and set it aside. "But … he's still awake," he observed uncertainly.

Aragorn made no answer. He enveloped Legolas' wrist in a gentle hold, pressing his fingertips into his pulse point again. And he started to talk, soft and low, in that nonsensical language he and the elf shared. Whatever it was Aragorn was saying to him, Legolas seemed to hear his words as he had not heard Gimli's, and though he made no reply, the panicked fear in his eyes quietened. The quaking of his tense body lessened under Gimli's touch to a faint quiver, his heartbeat calming to something a little less frightening. Even Gimli - who spoke very little Sindarin and understood even less – felt his own distress lessen.

His sense of ease did not remain for long. Aragorn lifted his eyes from their failing companion and fixed Gimli with a sad look, shaking his head meaningfully. The healer did not intend for his patient to sleep, and Gimli did not understand why … but the grave weight in his eyes suggested there was strong reasoning behind his decision. There was such ageless power in that silver gaze that Gimli could not escape it, and for a moment, he seemed more elf than man.

"Gimli, I need you to listen to me," Aragorn commanded tightly. "There is something..." His sentence stalled and his jaw clenched. "You _must_ hold him down. No matter what. Understand?"

Gimli blanched, but gave his companion a clipped nod, and watched, appalled, as Aragorn brought a pair of pincers and a small blade to hand -

Though whatever Aragorn had administered stopped Legolas fighting, the muscle under Gimli's hold became stressed to the point of tearing when Aragorn took the knife to his side… and Gimli's heart could do naught but quail in horror when Legolas released a terrible and keening cry, low at first but building, until it became a raw scream of unbridled agony.

Sweat seeped from Aragorn's brow into his eyes. He wiped it away on his shoulder, only grateful that his heightened terror at what he did expressed itself in that form rather than shaking his hand. The incision he created was as small as he could make it between the broken ribs, and he acted as fast as he dared, but it was like the damnable thing he chased through his friend's body knew it was being hunted. Clean blood blocked his view as he slipped the blade through healthy flesh, and the thing was moving at an angle up and under. _It is aiming for his heart_ -

An open sob bucked through a new agonised cry. Tears ran the etched contours of pain in the archer's face, and Gimli felt his own eyes heat at seeing such utter misery.

"_Mahal's breath_, Aragorn!" Gimli exclaimed, his grief overriding his self-control. "Will you not _give_ him something?"

The ranger shot him a fleeting glare, his eyes hard and pained. "What would you have me give him that he's not already had?" Aragorn snapped, at the edge of his nerve as he tried to carry through his work whilst listening to his dearest friend screaming with the agony inflicted by his own hands. "He's not_ strong enough_, Gimli!"

"But this is _killing him!_"

"And if I give him anything stronger, he will certainly die!"

The revelation stunned him, and Gimli could do little but watch as Aragorn continued his task, his head bent to it and face obscured by a mop of hair. He shook his head numbly to himself and drew his eyes back to Legolas' face … and started when he realised he was being watched.

It was like no gaze he had ever held with anyone before. It was deeper than Aragorn's grave intensity, and more consuming than the Lady Galadriel's ancient power. Bereft of any kind of guard, Legolas' soul was laid bare to him, stripped of all his fierce pride and quiet reserve. The Legolas he knew was there, but he was dangerously adrift, trapped in a violent current that threatened to bear him away, and Gimli felt he was being looked to for some kind of anchorage. But he did not fully comprehend what that midnight stare was asking of him, _pleading_ of him. Such overwhelming pain, and nothing he could do to help him fight it.

As quickly as Gimli had found himself pulled in, Legolas' agony broke it off, his eyes sealing tight as a fresh wave of pain stole back the glimmer of self-control it had allowed. His head bowed to it and an unrestrained and consuming cry rent itself from his throat.

"Stay strong, lad," Gimli choked out, catching up Legolas' hand in his own and gripping it tight. "You hear me, Elf? Don't you _dare_ give in!"

Aragorn swore fervently as his hunt forced him to prise at the broken ribs themselves. If it slipped through any further, there would be nothing he could do … Legolas' reaction to the sliver of cursed sword was not the same as Frodo's had been all those months ago. He had fought the darkness emanating from the shard and turned it on his own body rather than allowing it to poison his soul. If it won, if it reached his heart, he would die. Better that than to wander the world for all eternity as one of the Damned, but Aragorn could not stand to lose him, not now, not after only just getting him back…

Then he felt it, the bite of metal on metal.

"Keep him still!" Aragorn snatched up his pincers and prised the broken ends of bone wider to open the wound and allow access under the other ribs. Legolas' cries were savaging Aragorn's resolve, and though he strained to hold strong against them, his vision blurred wetly at the cruelty of it. He wiped his eyes angrily on his shoulder and bent all his will into working the pincers through the incision he had made -

It was not there.

"_No!_"

He forced the pincers deeper and twisted them along the shard's course, feeling the head tear through flesh in his bid to wrest the slither of evil from taking his friend's life. He would not give in: he would stand as the last barrier between Legolas and the night and he would fight until there was nothing left of him –

Metal again. Aragorn's heart leapt to his mouth as the pincers bit down hard. He could feel the difference in the depth through the blood-slick grips, he could feel that they had something clenched in their jaws. But there was so much blood… It slathered his hands with a sickening vigour and made his hold on the grips tenuous at best as he struggled to gain better purchase. There would only be this one chance. Aragorn snatched up a clean rag and transferred the pincers into the hold of the material, feeling the blood soak into the fibres and meld with them over the slippery steel and give him the grip he needed.

Slowly, carefully, he extracted the tool and its captured prey…

Even though Aragorn had succeeded in removing it, an air of triumph pulsed from the shard and mocked them with all the depraved humour of its origins, as though it knew the height of suffering meted out thanks to its efforts. Two and a half inches long, and no more than half an inch wide, the fragment of Nazgûl blade glinted sickly in the waxing light, the dull black metal wearing Legolas' blood like a vile sheath. The thing tapered into a vicious point, so sharp it almost cut the eye to look upon it.

"That was _inside_ him?"

Aragorn felt his head nod, distant and separated from himself. Shock marred his perception of the surrounding world for an undeterminable stretch of moments. _That was inside him_. The thin barrier of control Aragorn had managed to maintain ruptured, the slip of Nazgûl blade juddering before him as his hand shook violently. He dragged what felt like the first true lungful of air in an age and felt his chest heave and buck with the shock of it. Nausea writhed in the pit of his stomach as his body came to terms with what he had done, and what they had so narrowly escaped. It had come so very, very close…

Something was wrong. Seeing the shard out in the light and covered in his friend's blood had slowed Gimli's head … and when he realised, his mind raced to catch up with the alarms his senses had been clamouring for him to hear.

"Legolas? Legolas, lad?"

The forest air no longer cowed before terrible and heart-shredding screams. There was no tremble of muscle under the pressure of Gimli's still-pinning hand on Legolas' chest, and under the blood and the dirt and lines of pain his grey face was still, the deep agony in his eyes shuttered away by sealed lids. Nothing moved, save the lost meandering of a last tear tracing the contours of his nose. Gimli recalled the slender hand still held in his own. "Elf -" He clenched it until it should hurt and shook it hard, but nothing happened. "_Elf!_"

The shard was dropped and forgotten into the leaf mould. Aragorn shunted Gimli aside and pushed his bloodied fingers under Legolas' jaw. His hands shook for an entirely different reason as he kept his fingertips pressed into the pulse point.

Gimli was up and out of Aragorn's way, but his feet edged him closer without his asking, not permitting him to place any distance between them. Confused fear seized Gimli's heart when Aragorn abandoned his efforts at finding Legolas' heartbeat with a strangled and undistinguishable cry, snatching his elven hunting knife from his belt and tilting a perfect plane under the elf's nose and slightly parted lips.

"No … I was talking to him. We were talking. Just minutes ago…" Gimli felt suspended in a cruel void between disbelief and reality as he watched the ranger's panicked search. His head told him this could not be the same person, the lofty elf he had loathed, and the friend he had come to respect. He could not accept that this was the wry-humoured archer, who always smiled with undimmed honesty in his eyes. He could not be the warrior who had danced for millennia amongst his foes with mocking grace, or the damned squirrel with a penchant for honey in vile teas. It was not possible that the still and damaged body before him was the same indomitable character…

A glimmer wrested his attention on the forest floor and Gimli looked to it, not wanting to concede that the splinter of Nazgûl blade had defeated them, even as it lay abandoned and righteous in the beech leaves…

But when Aragorn lifted Legolas and clenched him tightly to his chest, releasing the intensity of his grief into the archer's tangled crown, an invisible hand forced Gimli to his knees before his own pain. He did not sob, he was too numb … and as he watched the ranger cradle his life-long elven friend, he heard not Aragorn's open agony, but hissing laughter emanating from the poisoned barb, the breath of the Nazgûl themselves, victorious after all.

TRANSLATIONS:

Stille nu – Be still

An ngell nîn – Please (literal: For my joy)

Kurnheim – Stonehead (Khuzdul)

Im gosta – I'm afraid

Gar bellas, gwador nin – Have strength, my [sworn] brother


	17. Chapter Seventeen: The Heart of You

Firstly, I am so very, very sorry. Long time in coming? Not half. I could flood you with gushing excuses, or I could simply say that Life got in the way. Well, it did. Secondly, I'm sorry. Please no tomatoes! Hopefully this chapter will make up for at least a tenth of my rubishness as an author. If it makes anyone feel any better, I am losing sleep because I am posting this chapter now. My very special and warm thanks to Vanimalion for her continued support and harassment (in a good way!), and my extra special thanks to Myselfonly, without whom's help this chapter would still be about 1,000 words long. Thank you for the guidance, the cajouling, and the words of wisdom. I owe you some reviews, big time.

Please enjoy, and tell me what you think to my dark turn in the supernatural (you'll find out!).

Sorry again!

Part Two

'Action is transitory, a step, a blow –

the motion of a muscle – this way or that –

'tis done – and in the after vacancy

we wonder at ourselves like men betray'd.

Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark,

and has the nature of infinity.'

**William Wordsworth, **_**The Borderers**_

Chapter Seventeen: The Heart of You

_This sensation was not new. The feel of loss of form was familiar, a recent memory he had not been aware of possessing until he found himself here, right now. There was displacement and the unquestionable tainted fear of finality … but the fear was pitched higher than ever before, the uncertainty he had experienced last time replaced by a desperation the like of which he had never felt._

_Ahead, there were voices, but they did not greet him with love and regret: they were fell, joyous whispers in the pitch dark at his coming, a fresh plaything, the soul of an immortal torn from his physical anchor and gifted to them forever._

_There was no way back, no choice like before, and only the darkness was there to laugh at his terror and fling it back at him. Distant and unreachable was the agony of his brutalised body, but he longed for it. What twisted world was this, where the ceaseless torment of his body was sweeter than death? He clamoured for release back to his physical form, where pain was real and total, but where there was also warmth and friendship and love –_

"… my Lord!"

Everything changed, and the contrast could not be greater. The light streaming through the open balcony coloured by the coming fall of the day was entirely too harsh, and Elrond felt himself shy from its brilliance. The steady roaring of the falls beyond clawed at his very core. He was sat in a long room lined with tapestries detailing many years of history. As his eyes fell on them, he _knew_ them, his mind reliving the events too acutely and too fast. He was at peace in Beleriand and he was at war before the Black Gates. He was fleeing the fall of his home with countless others and orchestrating the gathering of the Last Alliance all at once, and his head was reeling with this newfound sensitivity. He was married and happy and she was gone in the same heartbeat. It was drawing too deeply on him, stripping him down and touching every fibre of his being -

"Lord Elrond!" A hand touched his own, and upon looking at it, he realised his fingernails were embedded in the oak table top. His eyes traced the line of the wrist, to arm, to shoulder, to face, and he acknowledged that Lord Ristaril was looking at him with high concern, and when he turned his gaze away over the table, he could see ten of his other elven lords regarding him with the same expression. And then he remembered: the council chambers. A meeting concerned with upping the northern patrols.

"I am well," he muttered, disengaging his nails from the wood and removing his hand from Ristaril's concerned grasp. "I am well…"

"I think we have chewed through this matter enough for today," Glorfindel interceded from his seat two chairs from Elrond. "Might I suggest it be raised again in the general council tomorrow?" It may have been broached as a question, but it was very much a command, and the other lords acknowledged it as such. Several murmurs of agreement rose to his suggestion, and when Elrond distractedly nodded his consent, his lords left the table and quietly departed.

The sudden emptiness of the room seemed a violent change to him, but it was preferable to the pressure of so many crowding him with their concern. Now he could feel only one pair of eyes staring at him intently. Elrond did not need to look at his companion to know that it was Glorfindel with whom he shared the chamber. For a time, silence was the only other occupant of the room, until Glorfindel also rose from his seat. He did not follow the others through the door, but took himself to a small side table adorned with crystalwear and a range of selected wines. But it was not wine that he reached for, instead going for a stout bottle at the very back that only Glorfindel ever touched, and he did not hesitate in pouring two measures into crystal tumblers. He placed one of them before his friend on the oak top.

"What is it?" Elrond eyed the contents warily, knowing Glorfindel and his peculiar tastes too well to blindly trust the glistening dark liquid. The heady fumes of alcohol stirred up his nose, hot and strong.

"What it is is not important," the other elf stated as he leaned his hip into the table beside his friend. "Drink."

Glorfindel threw his own measure down his throat in one, and reluctantly taking his lead, Elrond did the same. He immediately wished he had done no such thing: he had never tasted anything so harsh, feeling the purifying fire of the stuff tear through the fog of his mind and throw him back to himself. It burned down his throat and seared his stomach, and he could hardly muster the strength to throw his old friend an indignant glower. To his utter irritation, Glorfindel looked completely unfazed.

"What is this poison?" Elrond demanded, his voice turned husky by the power of the drink.

The look the golden-haired lord cast him was nonplussed. "Do not be so over-dramatic," he admonished, reaching for the bottle and serving himself another measure. "This is a very fine blackberry brandy of which I am fond, and I would thank you not to insult it." Glorfindel gave the freshly filled glass an admiring look before downing the shot. He swallowed and relished the heavy taste. "From our dwarvish friends in the north," he supplied. Glorfindel finally set down his empty glass and turned his brilliant blue gaze on Elrond. "Anyway. Excellent as it is, the brandy is not of importance. What did you see?"

The harsh quality of the drink was forgotten immediately. Elrond rolled the last drops around the curvature of his glass, a run of purple so dark it was almost black against the purity of the glinting crystal. "Thranduil's Greenleaf is fading."

-(())-

Neither the puncture of the arrow or the ferocious bite of the sword had ever hurt him as deeply as he hurt now, cradling the body of an elf tightly against his chest. To Aragorn, there was nothing else, no-one else. He knew much of pain: he was a ranger of the Wilds, a man who had settled into a hard life lived by the sword and surrounded himself willingly with others of like mind. Many times had he borne witness to the pain of others and felt it himself, because that was the cost of leading such a life. Sometimes, the ultimate price was taken, regardless of rank or love or loyalty. Aragorn understood that.

But not Legolas, never Legolas. Not Legolas…

A stronger taunt of wind shoved at his back and his skin bristled at its cold jostle. The cloth beneath his hands, so tightly woven through his fingers in an effort to trap time, was tacky and wet and hot, and even as his face was nestled against Legolas' crown, the harsh tang of lost blood conflicted with the soft beneath his cheek. There was just so much of it, and it was inescapable. It coated his hands and smothered his soul, and Aragorn knew that until the moment he died, he would always be stained.

The cry that ripped through his throat was savage and broken and wild with the pain his heart did not know how bear, his body so rigid with it his bones would surely snap. It hurt, it hurt so very much: Aragorn felt he could tear himself apart with his own hands and know less pain.

Without his clear instruction, his hand disengaged itself from the stuff of Legolas' cloak and moved to his throat again. He stilled, quietening his grief like a parent hushing a child. To his trained touch, there was nothing to be found, no lost cry of life begging to be given just one more chance. Everything was entirely too still … yet the flesh was still warm, an echo of the brilliance that had been Legolas still there to touch. Aragorn could not stand the thought of the moment when that brilliance faded to a stone-like chill. He could not bear the thought of letting go.

The hand moved away from the elf's throat to settle on his chest over his heart. Again there was only stillness. Aragorn had known it long and well. He knew its passions and its hates, its joys and fears. He knew that a fast ride through the trees elevated its rhythm with exhilaration, and he knew how hardened it became against those who dared attack his people. He had witnessed it spur Legolas into states of unchecked fury and, on one occasion, he had seen it buckle and break and leave his friend utterly decimated. It was possible that Aragorn knew Legolas' heart better than he knew his own.

Aragorn swallowed past his grief and shifted his cheek on the crown of sullied hair. "I know the heart of you, Legolas." His whispered words were thick and coarse, but he did not notice, nor did he notice the tangled gold trapped under his cheek grow damp. "Don't you leave me. Not like this…" For all his presence was worth, he could have been standing on that precipice again, numbed by the rain and trapped in his own despairing helplessness. He was here, right here in his arms, and as far away as it was possible to be.

_I know the heart of you…_

From under the flat of the ranger's palm, a flutter. Nothing more than the final resistance of a drowning songbird, but there nonetheless, and it was more than enough to kick Aragorn's awareness. His mouth dried with the fear of being mistaken and the devastation of being wrong already licked at him, but he could not let go of that faint promise. "Legolas?"

From his isolated post at the outside, Gimli raised his head at the new note in the ranger's voice. And when his focus settled on the man, he could not comprehend the stark hope in Aragorn's face: his head remained bent, but he was listening, listening with the intensity of desperation and disillusioned faith. To Gimli, Aragorn looked for all the world like a man pushed to the brink of madness. This was grief at its most powerful. This was what death meant to those left behind, and Gimli found the sight ruptured against his own loss and provoked an odd sense of anger in him. "Aragorn, lad … he's gone. Let him be."

The pain of loss did not sit with Aragorn alone. Kneeling as he was in the damp leaves, the doughty dwarven warrior braced his arms together over his chest like a shield. No tears marred his cheeks, but he mourned. He mourned the loss of a respected comrade at arms, and someone he was beginning to regard as something close to a dear friend. But there was no time, not any more: he was robbed of the promise of a great friendship, just as Legolas' life had been stolen from him. Fate had cruelly knotted their threads together and then severed Legolas entirely from the tapestry.

Seeing Aragorn call to Legolas' unhearing soul was more than Gimli could stand, and he found his feet. He tried to push his focus away from the man and the elf, but he was asking entirely too much of himself.

Grief and anger melted together and poured from his mouth. "Will you let him be? He is _dead_, Aragorn!"

Aragorn had never cowed from a battle in his life as he flinched from those flung words. Hearing them imposed reality on him, and reality was something he wanted no part of. Gimli was right. It was enough to make the ranger's heart draw back, even as his hand remained over Legolas' stilled breast-

"_They need your strength when they have none left themselves. Never let them down!_"

The memory was so acute, so sharp, he was sent back eighty years and he was a boy again, trying to shy from the pain of a wounded hunter as his tutor reprimanded his weakness.

"No…" The word leaked from his lips. It was not just for Gimli: it was a flat refusal to the world, because he could not give in. He could not let Legolas down.

Aragorn refocused. He pressed his hand firmly against Legolas' chest until he could feel the resistance of his ribs. He pressed his brow against the elf's, just as they had done many a time in greeting over the long years. The new restraints he held over his own grief nearly buckled at the triggering of so many memories, but he remained steadfast, and called. It was not a shout, and despite the desperation and hurt that resonated through his voice, Aragorn kept it quiet, not needing the world to hear. It was not the world he was trying to reach.

_I know the heart of you_…

The northern wind shouldered into his back icily. The little scent it carried was frigid and numbing, the rumour of frozen lands reaching him through its aggressive gusting. At home, it would likely be snowing. By now, the northern passes to Mirkwood would be densely cloaked and impassable…

"Legolas. Legolas, come back to me."

-(())-

Legolas knew this place.

The mouldering scent of old earth disturbed from its rest permeated with the cold of dead stone, sodden and treacherous under foot. Rain pounded down on him and water streamed over his feet. It made him cold to his very quick, but it was not rainfall as he had ever known it in all his millennia: it did not bounce from his shoulders and soak his hair, but penetrated right into him, each drop an icy needle-like brand thrust through his flesh.

This slope, in the dark … it was frighteningly familiar … only, this was a nightmarish fabrication. It was a stage of memory, warped and accented by the inescapable horror of his own downfall mere days ago. Above him, the scree did not meet with the strong foundations of the forest, but continued beyond sight, endless and insurmountable. But close behind, near enough for a false step to be the end, the slope came to a jarring stop where the white water of the river raged and foamed. Its ice breath licked over his skin and promised to never release him from its embrace, not again -

Something writhed at his feet.

Fear clamoured for him to flee and fettered his feet both at once. It was only describable as black _nothingness_, vaporous but impossible to identify even as something as relatable as smoke. It seethed and contorted about his feet in complete defiance of the wind that should have pushed it away over the water … and when it started to wrap and twist up his body, like a malicious vine seeking to choke a sapling, he could do nothing as the foul pollutant entombed him in a swirling mass of black, until it suddenly stopped its nauseating movement and fused into solid and towering shapes -

These he knew. So many things he had known in his life and had reason to fear … but all paled to nothing when he found himself caged in the gapless ring of rotting cloth.

Before, there had been five. Now they were nine, the nightmare kings, emitting evil intent as pungently as the rotting stench that shrouded them. And he could _see_ them now. For the first time ever, he saw them as the putrefying shadows of their mannish selves that they truly were, creatures that did not belong with the living or dead. Shades of evil, their rotting lips drawn back in sick grins at their final victory over him. They reeked of hate and pain, of things long since gone that should have been forgotten, noisome and vile.

After the seemingly unending torment and enduring agony he had been through, not even death itself offered him the peace he craved. Trapped, and with nowhere to escape.

On those darkest of nights when he was enveloped in the solitude of watch duty, Legolas had often looked to the star-peppered skies and wondered if he would join those he had lost sooner than his blood should allow. Never had he been so unwise as to dismiss death as something that would never happen to him: he was a warrior, and warriors died. When death touched the Eldar, rarely was their transition peaceful as it could be for mortals, but often cruel and violent, and he could not deny that, deep down, he had always feared it. By the nature of his position, he had witnessed too many die in ways that dampened the effect of even his most terrible imaginings.

But _this _was a far darker reality than even his most malicious nightmares had ever imparted to him.

Looking on the looming black-cloaked figures penning him in, he knew with damning certainty that he would not be allowed to leave.

_I will never see any of them again_.

It was a single thought, a fleeting realisation, but it was crippling. He had nothing. Devastation tore out his resolve and left a terrifying emptiness that ate into his spirit with rapacious vigour. And that same black fog that had furled at his feet bled into his head, its violating touch pushing the sudden void of loneliness all the wider.

And they laughed. Silken and poisonous, the sound of their mockery leaked from their black maws and caressed his ailing heart with a strangling hold, accented by the sharp grate of coarse blades being drawn. The sound dripped with the promise of annihilation, and he knew he would not even be a shade after they were through. That unflinching strength of heart that he had relied on for so many years started to buckle. He had not the strength, he was too weak for this -

_Lost…_

It was not even speech. The word tore through the core of him, a sharp talon dragged over the fine strings of his heart, scarring and savage. _So alone… So very alone … LEGOLAS!_

He had never given it a thought. It was seemingly little more than a word, a banding of letters and collection of sounds that trapped the tiny fractions of his life and webbed them into a fine and glistening tapestry that _was _him.

But in their vile tongue, his name was a burning brand thrust through the centre of that fine mesh, and he was undone. His guard splintered open and they piled on his fëa as starved wolves would set upon an exhausted hart.

No attack he had ever endured during his life held any resemblance to this: the blades were not for flesh, but for his soul. They swiped through him, hacking at the cornered animal that was his essence without a shade of mercy…

And he screamed. How he screamed with every fibre of himself that was left to him, and how their peals of laughter smothered his cries and scorned his fear as they shredded into him.

It was his memories that they wanted, and when they reached them they gave no quarter as they ripped through them in their maddened search.

Precious moments became shields, savaged to indistinguishable fragments as though they were little more than fine paper. Spectres from his past pooled before him, over three thousand years of treasured memories … obliterated by poisoned swords and reduced to ash on the wind. Harsher retentions he had fought many long years to repress came to the fore, moments of shame and rage and grief cracking under the siege and scolding him. He held a secret that he had sworn to protect and they wanted it, but he could not hold out against such an onslaught for long. He was bleeding, bleeding from his memories, and there was nothing he could do to stem the flow -

"… _I want you to take Frodo_…"

They stilled, fixated by the conversation that bloomed before them, staged between a failing elf and a reluctant hobbit. Horror seized him as the dangerous memory played in the rain, treacherously defying the need for silence:Samwise, sat next to him in the sunlight like a colourful ghost, the hobbit's worry for him melding with his fear at what he was being asked to do -

Once again on this damnable slope, he was the only barrier between the Nine and Frodo, and he franticly tried to grab back the snatch of memory -

But they had seen. It was too late. He hurriedly tried to push the vital and devastating information down deep in the moment before they set upon him again … but the Nine had found the blood trail of their wounded quarry, they knew the place where he struggled to hide it, and they slashed through the scant barriers he managed to erect.

It was like fighting to stay afloat without letting go of something precious clenched in his hands.

_The spices on the meat are too heavy. Everybody is looking at his grandfather making his speech, and no-one save Daerahil sees him slip it to Baerahir's plate, but it is alright, Daerahil will not tell-_

_The kingfisher is a sapphire dart to the river – in out – and sits proud amongst the spring emeralds of the oak branch with his prize-_

"_You disappointed me tonight… In a way I never thought possible."_

_Wargs, they are riding wargs. They fly down the gully sides and he knows there is no way they can outrun them, and death-screams rip from behind-_

_Afraid and alone in the snow, for all his adult words still a child at heart: "Promise me you'll come back!"-_

_ Above the excruciating pain of the arrow in his shoulder, he hears the strength of his father's heart, bracing him tight against his chest for its removal-_

"_Still you insist on treating me as a child-"_

"_BECAUSE YOU ARE _MY _CHILD!" _

_The stench of burning flesh seeps into the back of his throat and they are in the village. Too late, they are too late, and only the silence of the dead greets them, punctuated by the black shafts of orc bolts in the churned mud-_

_His grandfather's army is an endless ribbon, and he stands and watches for what could easily be hours in the snow. When it is gone he stays yet, because he promised, and the skin of his cheeks is tight where his tears have frozen –_

_ They are forced to move north. His father tells the people it is precautionary, but he knows better -_

_They have taken the child from him, and the pain in his heart carries a fire he does not think can ever be extinguished, and finally he understands the hard love of father and son-_

_Against the cool oak door, listening to his father's grief… "She is dead, Daerahil." And he crumples into the wood and sobs, because his heart hurts and he does not know what else to do-_

It was old pain drawn out and perverted into a new kind of agony. It penetrated so deep into his core that he longed for the physical pain of his broken body as a release.

The little moments and the bigger events that made him who he was were haemorrhaging into each other. And the Nine were winning: with each torn recollection his resistance weakened, bleeding from him in great rivers. It would not be long now, not long until there was nothing left of him and they got what they wanted -

-(())-

It was raining. Aragorn did not recall that it rained … nor did he remember the transition of day to night. It was night, it was raining, and the wind was screaming.

No. No, not the wind … someone…

His thoughts strained to make sense, trapped by the alien otherworldliness of this alarmingly familiar place like a deer drowning in quicksand…

The stone chips under his feet slipped and shifted on a bed of mud, drenched through and unstable, and his numbed mind remembered -

The violence of his realisation kicked his senses back to him, and he knew where he was, in a warped version of the place his dream-self would be forced to wander forever. And he remembered why he was here, and he knew whose screams he could hear over the tumult of churning water and howling wind, above the fell shrieks that he knew too well -

"_Legolas!_"

-(())-

The wind cried with a voice that he thought he knew, a single word breaking through the piercing shrieks of his tormentors. Hearing the desperation and pain encapsulated in that voice pulled at his protective instincts, but he did not understand where the feeling originated, or even why such an impulse should grab at him when he himself was being ripped apart. Memories he did not possess the strength to truly muster writhed beneath the surface, stirred by the voice he _thought_ he knew. But he dismissed it as another evil trick of this place, trying to drag hope from him so that it could be slashed to ribbons like everything else. He turned his back on the hope that he was not alone, and waited for them to finish him.

He heard it again, and he understood this time that it was _not_ the wind as it tore into a very real scream. _Someone_, some other damned soul who had managed to trap themselves in his perpetual nightmare … and he knew it was to him that they called.

_Stay away_, his flickering mind cautioned. _They will get you. Stay away. Stay away…_

The word rent the air again. The wind tried to snatch it away from him, but it was too strong in its desire to be heard: it would not be quelled by the fierce jealousy of the screaming gales, or by the evil shrieks of the Nine themselves.

A name, it was a name. If he tried, perhaps he could piece together some semblance of sense from the collection of broken sounds. But he was too weak now. And besides, it would be over soon, it _had_ to be over soon, there was so little left of him for them to destroy…

"_Legolas!_"

There again, but this time he heard it clearly. _Legolas. _The name. _His _name. The recollection was brief and gone in a moment, slipped away like he had tried to catch smoke in a net. Too much of him was lost, that fine mesh that entwined everything he was too damaged to hold such a precious thing...

The voice had transcended the confines of death and reality and braved the darkness that trapped him to follow where none should be able to tread. It reached out to him again, determined that he would take back what was rightfully his. It was laden with the memories of someone else who was strong and whole and defiant, memories that he shared, though he shied from their tentative touch, not wanting to see yet another part of him obliterated -

The Nine closed tighter around him, penning his vision with their rotting silhouettes, walling him off from any hope of salvation … yet he felt something brush against his consciousness, like a questing hand trying to find him in the dark. It was a sensation he had never knowingly acknowledged before, and yet it was so familiar … like the softness inside an old pair of gloves, or the smell of home…

The touch and the voice…

_Legolas._

The voice and the name, thunder after lightning, and a sudden onslaught of powerful images blazed through him, moments he never realised he possessed but that he loved -

_It is autumn, and they have a fire for the night because the mortal feels 'chill', and he cannot help but tease his childlike need-_

_It was Elrohir who suggested it, but he was the one who took the clothes, and now they hide out of reach in the heights of the tree, laughing themselves senseless at the curses of the irate and near-naked adan far below-_

_The small orc horde in the gully below do not realise they are being hunted. He lifts his eyes silently to the adan across from his position, and his friend returns the look with a sober nod. They are one as they draw their bows-_

"_You may have been raised by elves, Ranger, but that does not mean you have the sense of one."_

"_You say that, yet you are one, and you have no sense at all!"_

_Shoulder to shoulder they stand, they two whom have stood so for so long now. The adan nods his consent, and it is affirmation of a solid trust long standing, trust that he will do what is required to protect the quest. The same trust that Boromir fears. And rightly so-_

_A man of many names and many guises, a shadow who prowled the Wilds and openly challenged the darkness._

_Longshanks…_

But this was not darkness that could be fought. Witless orcs did not prowl the slope, dangerous but stupid like the forces they were used to countering. They were in the shadow world of the Úlairi, and here, they were almighty: there was no conceivable way a man could pit his strength against them and win. Had he not learned that from those few nights ago? But that was him, that was his strength … he did not quail in the face of the darkness; he did not abandon those he loved …

_Aragorn…_

Shrouded in the rags of animosity, the last king of Númenor…

_Elessar…_

But he was not hiding, not now: he was here in plain sight. Legolas could feel the fierce strength of heart that belonged to his friend encompassing him, and he could tear himself apart with the mix of terror and happiness and grief that assailed him…

It hurt to know that Aragorn had trapped himself here … and at the same time, he hated himself for the swell of relief that invaded his heart that he was not completely alone_._

Hope itself, hope in the dark…

_Estel_…

_Estel!_

_Ai, no! _Blind terror tempered his fear into fresh panic- _NO!_

_Go back! You cannot be here! Go back!_

So intent had they been on their victim that they had not noticed the coming of another … but his reaction piqued their interest, and in mounting horror he watched as the attention of the Úlairi collectively turned their focus to the figure coming down the slope, as a nest of vipers would on a rabbit –

-(())-

"_GO BACK!"_

It was akin to being hit with the butt of an axe. The scream exploded through Aragorn's consciousness and he was nearly knocked from himself at the deluge that followed. He was at once drowning and on fire. Cold as he had never known grabbed his heart and coupled with terror so consuming it smothered what little sense of himself he had left.

But above everything else was the pain. _Never_ had Aragorn felt anything so complete and consuming, so much so that the physical hurts of the body were a distant and longed-for dream. The most beloved aspects of his life, surrendered in what his heart knew to be a worthless sacrifice. With or without him, they would discover what they wished to know. His most treasured moments were inconveniences to them, nothing more…

He was so lost and afraid, torn asunder and flung wide from himself. But it was what they would do to his foolish adan friend that thrashed his heart with fear – _"What are you doing here? They will destroy you! Go back! Go back -"_

Realisation shunted him back to a sense of himself. All this fear, and pain and sorrow … it was Legolas'. In the elf's flayed state, the tentative connection Aragorn had forged between them had opened a flash flood, a surge of agony and terror Legolas was devoid of the strength to temper, and Aragorn was in very real danger of being completely engulfed by it.

Years that had long passed into myth poured into his head as though he stumbled into history, bright flashes that had scorched themselves into another's eyes all but seared him –

Elven life burned with a brilliance too massive to be contained by a mortal mind, and even though the light that was Legolas was near extinguished, he was still enough to rip Aragorn apart. To Aragorn as he battled to rise to the surface of his own consciousness, it was like trying to breathe with hot water flooding his throat –

The ranger wrenched himself free before the Sindar's distress could completely consume him. He reeled, temporarily oblivious to the threat of the Nine, to their surreal surroundings, even to his own life. He knew he was on his knees in the freezing scree, fighting to gather himself together … yet even though he struggled to find himself, he was agonisingly aware of Legolas. He was _there_, a vein-like scar at the edge of his mind, sensitive and burning like the deep cut to his hand. Just beneath its delicate surface, broken thoughts eddied on a tide of violent emotion, tearing over the much deeper current that _was_ Legolas, and his terror permeated the seam of awareness into Aragorn's mind like a fine mist. But it scored Aragorn's heart that, even now, he could sense his friend fading, and he knew it would not be long before the river was spent.

One foot found its grounding, slowly followed by the other. Mud and stone slipped under the pressure, and he had to concentrate on his balance as he goaded himself into standing. Aragorn raised his eyes to the nine hooded figures. They were closer than he realised, standing shoulder to shoulder with preternatural stillness and blocking his sight from the one they knew he wanted to see. The fell blades they had used on Legolas were point down in the mud, distanced like the bars of a cage, and it spoke of their scant regard of him as a threat that they made no move to raise them.

For all the baleful moaning of the wind and harsh shattering of the rain on the slopes, the silence stretching between the man and the nine undead sparked with dangerous charge.

The gales flung the stinging rain into the ranger's eyes and lashed his face with his own hair, but he paid it no mind, his attention honed completely on the lethal foes facing him. Aragorn's sword sang out a clean note that cut through the miasma of evil when he drew it. He felt the leaden weight of the water trying to drag him down, but he held the weapon steady.

"_Elessar_…"

The name slipped over him as a snake might try and envelop helpless prey, and it was all he could do to supress a shudder…

_Elessar_.

_Peace was won. No shadow polluted the eastern sky, and the untainted sunlight spilled over Arwen's face, his radiant queen. Her loveliness was his, and it was as though a cloth was being drawn across his mind, so silken it was almost fluid. Its gentle comforting embrace promised to quell his fears and sooth his pains … it was the warmth of Arwen's hand upon his face, the softness of her breath against his neck, and everything were together for a promised eternity -_

"_ESTEL!"_

The warning whip-cracked through his head. A flash of secondary pain, and Legolas' presence snapped away – but the Nazgûl were too late: Legolas had flung back the cover of deception smothering Aragorn's perception. Now that he was awakened to it, fresh rage blazed through him that they had sullied Arwen's name in their bid to coax him to them. But the _frightening _part was that he had not sensed their virulent tendrils pry into his thoughts and twist them so successfully.

"_Estel … you cannot win this." _Weak, little more than an agonised whisper at the back of his mind, and his heart twisted to hear it. _"They see you, they know who you are… Estel, I am begging you… Please go back."_

Legolas begged no-one, and Aragorn's heart ached to hear the broken plea, but he stayed steady. _"I thought you knew me better than that, Legolas." _Every word between them pressed on the burning scar like a brand, but he would not relinquish such a bond for all Arda. Looking on the jagged swords glinting dully in the rain and knowing it was his own death he observed, he found the corner of his mouth tipping in a wry grin: _"You've always told me I shouldn't hide, anyway."_

"_I meant from yourself!" _Fond exasperation momentarily transcended the weakness Aragorn sensed, rekindling something of the old fire he recognised as his friend. It pleased him that he got to hear it again, before the end.

Aragorn hefted his sword from where the tip had come to rest in the dirt during his lapse. Its weight felt ten times greater as he looked on the scene before him, so terribly reminiscent of what Legolas had faced so recently. Would he emerge the victor, where Legolas had failed? He doubted it … but nothing could persuade him to abandon his friend, not to _them_.

"_And I've always said you should be less abstruse."_

"_Estel -"_

"_I will not leave you behind, Legolas." _Any trace of glib humour was completely eradicated by flat refusal. _"Not again."_

Legolas did not reply. What Aragorn felt of his presence ebbed to little more than a failing ember, flickering and guttering behind the barrier of mighty cruelty trying to drive him from existence. Aragorn sensed the resonating echo of Legolas' fading heartsong mourning his choice, but his weakness forced him into acceptance. Legolas' upset at Aragorn's decision tugged at their tie, but it was the shamed touch of thankfulness and love that Aragorn detected that he found truly painful.

"_Together, my brother."_ Aragorn carefully set Legolas aside, shielding their bond from the Wraiths so that he might at least succeed in keeping some element of his friend safe. If this was to be it, at least neither of them would be truly alone…

_They are being hunted. The night and the trees conspire against them, and the arrow in Aragorn's back slows their flight. Legolas stops and looks back. The elf is stock-still, sharp as a hawk and just as precise when he looses his arrow, and the slinking shadow Aragorn had not seen grunts and falls still-_

"_More come, Estel, keep moving!"_

_But he has not even the strength to muster a reply, and he distantly feels the elf take his weight with his shoulder, and they are moving again-_

The pride of his ancestry and open defiance straightened his back in the face of his death, his eyes hard and steady: it was his turn.

"Give him back to me."

Laughter prickled over his skin, and this time, Aragorn could not refuse the shudder that grabbed his spine.

"You cannot claim what is not yours."

As one, the Nazgûl soundlessly raised their blades. This was it. Aragorn swallowed dryly and adjusted his grip, ready…

"_Two – four – five– You are not fast enough!"_

_His sword is batted aside with an almost casual swat by the smaller knives, and he resents this arrogant prince from the north who tests his fighting so harshly. It is not like sparring with his brothers: this elf is not loath to show him his weaknesses, and it sets a fire of dislike in his young belly-_

A ripple of silent shadow, and Aragorn's fight reflex sent a jolt of anticipation through every taut muscle – but he could never prepare himself for the attack they launched on him:

The gapless rotting barrier split and framed something lying still and broken in the sodden muck…

Horror and grief stripped the fight from Aragorn's limbs. He watched the eddying ghosts of their joint past, dancing and whirling in a myriad of faded colours and lost moments. Some he recalled clearly, others jerked his memory … but it was the fallen figure at the very heart of it all that tore into him. The proud and fierce warrior, the last prince of the elves … his friend … reduced to little more than a lost shade of the Legolas he knew at the feet of their enemies and helplessly awaiting that final strike.

The rain violently parted in a splintered shower of black diamonds for the nine blades that arced down to deliver it-

"_NO!_"

Metal clattered on stone as instinct took over and released his hand. Not the instinct he had relied on for all his adult life, but something far stronger and as ancient as his bloodline, roused from dormancy to defend what a sword could not save, and it felt like it was splitting him in two -

The Witch-king recognised the surge of untempered power a split second before it blasted into him and the others. Their demonic screams sheered the air as all nine were repelled back with enough force to rip them gracelessly from their feet and fling them wide of their victim –

Aragorn wheeled in shock. Intense pain blistered through his head like a thousand pockets of fire, but he blanked it as he drove himself forward through the darkness to the prone figure. But his movements were clumsy and leaden, his body feeling weak and unresponsive to the frantic commands of his will and his knees betrayed him, flinging him into the muck. Blearily he raised his head, seeing the still form of his friend seemingly so close, and yet so impossibly far…

Somewhere to his left, deep shadows darker than any nightmare writhed with unfettered malice, incensed hisses rising to a cacophony of screams of unparalleled fury: the Wraiths were recovering, and quickly.

Fear bit into his courage. Whatever it was he had flung at them had done nothing to destroy them: it was only a matter of moments before they would be upon them. And he had nothing left to give. The Wraiths would win, and there could be only death -

Aragorn pulled his eyes away from the Nine and tried to fix his swimming focus on Legolas. His friend's still form juddered and blurred, and Aragorn did not know if it was the rain trying to blind him, or his own senses failing him. "Legolas…" His voice sounded distant and distorted, a shadow on a wall. The elf did not respond, and real panic stabbed into Aragorn that his friend was gone, that he was going to die alone after all. Frantically he forced his focus on the forged bridge at the very edge of his mind … but there was nothing there to cross. He was alone.

The crunch of brittle stone under an iron-clad foot slowly followed by another, and he did not need to look up to know to whom those deliberate and fatal footfalls belonged. A low, predatory hiss ran along his spine and replaced his courage with utter terror–

Jagged splinters of stone tore at the skin of his hands as he dragged himself on his belly. A hand lay outstretched from Legolas' body, the elf's fingers lax and open. If he could only take that hand in his own, perhaps he would not be so alone when death came for him. Exhaustion hauled at his limbs, the two feet of distance an impossible league for what he had to achieve. He chanced a glance up at their coming executioner. Victory was etched into the warped contours of his rotting face, his ragged shrouds snapping and flailing in the wind in cruel celebration. And the sword raised once more, the mesmerising dance of a viper before its killing lightning strike.

The laughter of the damned poured over Aragorn's skin: grief and pestilence, pain and death, encapsulated in the splintering mockery of the Witch-king. Aragorn's efforts to get to Legolas were openly ridiculed with the surety of victory. Where once there had been mercy in the Witch-king's heart, there was only a bed of ash. He knew what Aragorn was trying to do, and his cruelty would not allow it.

The serpent streaked down -

A sharp cry of final defiance and Aragorn lunged the distance, flinging himself between the ragged sword and his friend's body. He snatched up the archer's icy limp hand in his own, clenching his eyelids against their fate –

Nothing happened. Where he expected to feel the savage bite of steel, he felt not so much as a glancing score, and he wondered in frightened anger what twisted game had stayed the Witch-king's hand.

And then Aragorn realised…

It did not rain. There was wind, but it snapped with clean cold against his skin, unlike the dirty grasping gales he had experienced. He could feel the dozy farewell kiss of the setting winter sun on the side of his face, the weak light glowing through his sealed eyelids. It did not rain, there was light, the wind was a welcome touch on his skin … and the vicious shrieks and jeering laughter were reduced to the chortling squabble of a magpie pair. How…?

Shouts of panic ruptured the slow process of his thoughts. They sounded at once distant and right in his ear, and he could not decide which of the two options it was, nor could he discern what was being said…

The sensations of his body knew this place: this was where life was … but he still held death in his arms, trying to fend it away with his love for the one he gripped so tightly, the one he had followed between worlds… But it was not possible, and with a dart of agony he realised that it could only have been a dream. A warped, convoluted nightmare that had preyed on his grief and his hope in one last effort to break him.

His face buzzed, and he did not understand it. His awareness grappled with the darkness pulling on him - then his eyes shot open at a sharp sting and whip-crack sound across his cheek, and his vision filled with a face shrouded in red wire-hair –

"_Aragorn!_"

Gimli's earthen tone boomed and rattled through his skull. Aragorn flinched with the tremors that shook his searing headache to new heights. The dwarf was oblivious to the fact, almost giddy with relief. However, the stout warrior's smile of happiness quickly gave way to a mask of anger. Without warning, he thumped Aragorn's arm, not hard enough to really hurt, but certainly hard enough to inform the ranger of his upset. "Don't you _scare _me like that! Never again! Understand? I thought you'd _died_." There was a crack in Gimli's strong tone, a seam of pain that Aragorn found surprising. He was struggling to keep up with the wheeling emotions firing from his friend, but the dwarf was not finished yet: "You went still … like the elf … I was speaking to you, and-"

"It felt so real…"

"What?" The same gloved hand that had thumped him only moments before encompassed his arm with gentle concern. Such strength, bent into something so muted by worry. "What are you talking about?"

"I followed him."

Gimli frowned, his great mane waving lazily as he shook his head slowly with the burden of his confusion. "Aragorn, lad, you're not making any sense."

"I followed him. _They _had him. I tried to save him, Gimli…" No more than a dream, but it _burned_. Aragorn could feel his throat constricting, trying to close the words off because they hurt too much to be uttered … but they forced themselves through, because he could not stomach the truth of them. "I didn't save him. I didn't save him…"

Gimli started to speak again, a heavy and even rumble of words aimed at taking the edge from Aragorn's pain, but Aragorn heard not a word of it. His grief was too engrossed in memorising the weight of his friend in his arms, the fine gold of his hair … the smell of his blood and the cruelty of his death. The pain threatened to engulf him again, but Aragorn did not care now if it swallowed him -

The dwarf's sudden iron grip clamping down on Aragorn's shoulder startled him from his thoughts long enough for his stunned eyes to find Gimli's face beside him. The ferocious grip was so intense he felt his bones shift, like being crushed in a warg's jaws … but it was the almost fearful focus of the dwarven warrior that really took Aragorn's attention. Though he could not bring himself to look, he knew it was at Legolas' face that Gimli stared, half concealed against Aragorn's chest as he held him. His clay eyes were fixed and wide and not a hair moved, not a breath was taken. He was so completely paralysed, Aragorn feared some form of seizure had taken him … until he shook his head, sweeping motions that encapsulated his expression.

"Look!" Gimli demanded, his normally strong tone degenerated into a rasp.

Aragorn blinked with incomprehension at his remaining friend. Why? What good could it do? He did not want to. He knew where Gimli's eyes looked. He knew every bruise, every pain line -

"_Look_, damn you!"

Without his instruction, regardless of his own reluctance, his eyes acknowledged Gimli's command … and felt a kick in the pit of his stomach strong enough to seize his heart. It bolted back into an uneven and thundering pace, clamouring painfully with the terror of being mistaken and euphoria of what should not be coming to pass.

Aragorn's mouth yearned to speak, but all words eluded him. Understanding was completely beyond him, but he was devoid of the need for it, because it did not matter. Not in that moment. Not as he involuntarily tightened his grip on Legolas' hand … because it gripped back. Because Legolas looked back at him, his focus unfixed and struggling, but it was Legolas all the same behind those dark blue eyes. They fluttered against the failing light, shying from its dimmed brilliance, and Aragorn could have sung with joy at their sensitivity. They fought hard against his weakness, but finally they found the storming grey above them and connected with their familiar hold. A frown tilted his bruised brow.

"I heard you…" Little more than a breath, yet Aragorn captured each sound like a cry. Legolas' eyes threatened to lose their focus and he had to fight to keep them open. "You called me… I heard you…"

Aragorn could stop no more stay the welling tears tumbling from his eyes than he could stop the laughing sob flying his lips. He pressed his brow against the elf's, greeting him as he always had. "Yes, I called you. And you answered.


	18. Chapter Eighteen: Falling

Okay, so ... I have neither died, nor been kidnapped, nor have I abandoned this story to the pits of hell. I've just been really, really busy. There is not enough time in the world! But I am sorry to all of you who have waited so patiently - and impatiently, in some cases! - for an update to this story. But I thank all of you for your continued support, and as a bit of a Christmas present, I'm giving you a super-duper long chapter...

Enjoy!

~Ghost

Chapter Eighteen: Falling

He did not know what they were going to do.

A care-worn, weighted sigh pushed half-heartedly at the stale air, air that had not been refreshed for at least ten hours, because he doggedly refused to let himself out of his study until the matter was resolved. For this was a very, very serious problem for their people. But no matter which way Daerahil looked at it, there was no feasible way he could maintain the imports from the south.

The lands south of the river were lost. Only eight nights ago, six settlements of their people had been completely annihilated in one foul synchronised attack. Many had died, and those few who had survived had lost everything to the plague of orcish might. A weighted pall of grief had settled over the Halls, and only the tears of those left behind lifted the silence.

Thranduil's fury was unparalleled. Daerahil had seldom seen their king so consumed by wrath. The order was immediately passed for all south of the river to evacuate to the Halls. The patrols along the forest road were pulled and commanded to regroup at the northern riverbank. Thranduil had gathered their key forces and ridden out to hold the river … for Eryn Galen was deep in winter's bite, and the river would not remain impassable for much longer.

It was the pulling of the patrols that caused Daerahil the greatest concern. Without the patrols, there was no defence on the road. Traders from the south who brought much needed supplies would not walk the road to the Halls without the watchful eyes of the elves guarding them. News of their plight had travelled quickly, and Daerahil cast a despairing eye over the tiny scrolls brought by bird from each of the traders, severing their contracts indefinitely.

The hours had stretched from him, his eyes strained through pawing over maps and documents charting their supplies. Their stocks were healthy, but with the flooding of the Halls of new mouths to feed, reserves that should have lasted them the winter out would not last them a month. Even if game was plentiful, hunts had to be restricted through necessity…

Daerahil pulled at his brow with long fingers. Stress stamped at his soul. He did not know what to do…

He jumped when the door was flung open. Irritation barbed at his already poor mood: his request to be left alone had been ignored, and he openly growled his displeasure as he turned from his desk to glare at the intruder. But Galion was not so easily cowed, and Daerahil felt the scowl lift from his brow as he took in the open worry on Galion's face.

Galion was not a character prone to open expression of his feelings. Too many years as Thranduil's butler had taught him to school his features in the face of the king's frequently flitting moods. He possessed such an extreme sense of propriety that he bordered on prudish, and there were few within the Halls whom he called friend. Galion did not care, however: he was head butler to the king, a position that fitted perfectly with his pride and manner, and he was more than happy with his position.

For someone so composed, so steady, to have agitation so clearly etched into their face, was cause to be very worried.

Daerahil found his feet, all thoughts of irritation wiped clear. "Galion … whatever's the matter?"

The other elf stepped forward, the urgency so clear in his eyes portrayed in the thud of his boots on the oak floor. Only when his hand extended did Daerahil notice the tiny scroll in his fingers. "This has just arrived by hawk," he stated, his tone clipped. "It's from Elrond."

_Elrond?_ Whatever was in the scroll was urgent if Elrond would willingly risk a hawk in this weather… Was Imladris under attack? Was Elrond looking to them for aid? They were barely managing themselves, they could not possibly afford to send any forces away –

But when the tight twist of parchment unravelled its secrets in his fingers, Daerahil felt his face pale. His heart clenched painfully and he felt panic elevate through his blood.

"I need my horse."

Galion looked horrified. "Your horse? Daerahil, you can't possibly ride out with the-"

"It's Legolas, Galion." The words barged through Galion's protests and split them apart. The butler's lips were agape, but his shock held his silence. But for Daerahil, giving the words of the tiny scroll voice forced them into reality, and he had to clench his fists at his side to stay their sudden shaking. "Thranduil must be told, and I must be the one to tell him."

_Because it is my fault._

-(())-

In the waxing light, the focus that an elf fought so hard for finally slipped. His eyes shuttered themselves from the agonised stare of his friends to find what little shred of peace might be left to him. He did not want to leave, but nor could he stay. It was not death that claimed him, not this time, but the cold and dangerous slip into unconsciousness that sought to disconnect him from the world, from his friends, because while he had been pulled back from death, he did not have the strength to cope with life.

Aragorn felt his chest shift in panic as he watched his friend's eyes seal him out. His hand jolted from the elf's slack grip to find the pulse point in his throat-

_He is not dead. _Calm, knowing.

He did not understand from where the reassuring thought in his mind stemmed, but his panic ignored it, pressing his fingers deep into Legolas' throat … only when he felt the weak yet consistent flutter did he lift his touch. Aragorn started to breathe again, unaware that he had ignored the basic request of his body until his chest ached. Fighting the swell of nausea triggered by the plunge between two extremes of fear and relief, the ranger carefully disengaged himself from the limp body in his arms and laid him back on his uninjured side in the leaves.

"Aragorn?"

He did not have the composition to answer, not immediately. Aragorn eased himself back on his haunches, his palms braced against his thighs as he stared at a ghost. Legolas was still, so very still, and it seemed an impossibility that life could reside within the broken husk his body had become. The ranger hauled one steadying breath, and another, easing them out through his nostrils as he balled his trembling hands into fists where they were: he needed to clench the shake from them, they had to be steady…

Aragorn plied his eyes from Legolas, and looked up at Gimli. The dwarf did not notice that he was being observed. His face was ashen behind the braided fire of his beard, his eyes caught in a net of uncertainty. Aragorn could see so much of what he felt mirrored in their earthen hues as the dwarf kept them riveted on their elven companion. The old grievances that had stood between the pair for so long were not even shadows in the weight of concern Gimli bestowed on Legolas. He had openly elected to disregard the opinion of his entire people to allow for a forbidden friendship, and now that he had stepped so far away from their state of traditional loathing, there was no way he could backtrack to their previous condition.

Given the choice, Aragorn would have no-one else by his side.

"Will you help me finish this while he is not awake?" His voice juddered and skipped, but there was no hiding what he felt, and it would be a mark of disrespect to Gimli to try and hide it. As a return, all the dwarf could offer him was a slight incline of his head, but it was all Aragorn needed. With one final deep breath, Aragorn retrieved his tools and continued with his task.

There could be no greater contrast between then and the time before. It felt strange to him that he did not have to pin his friend down as he took his fine tools to Legolas' flesh once more, plucking tiny fragments of dirt and grit from the angered wound. Gimli provided some of the cooled water to rinse the blood away whenever it was needed, and after only a few prompts, he was able to accurately anticipate when Aragorn would need his service. They worked in silence, the muslin parcel of sleeping herbs with the tiny glass vial of alcohol close to Gimli's hand … but all through Aragorn's attentions, Legolas did not rouse.

"I think I preferred it when he struggled."

Against his better judgement, Aragorn was inclined to agree as Gimli echoed his thoughts. This caustic silence was eating at his nerve: the healer in him appreciated the stillness of his ward, but worried endlessly over the drastic change in condition. "As did I, my friend."

After what felt like an eternity of picking, the cloth by Aragorn's side was peppered with tiny bloodied fragments of stone and muck. Though he looked, he found no further evidence of sword shards within the archer's side, which was the only mercy he could see in their entire damned situation. With a final flush, Aragorn deemed that they had done as much as they could for him. The poultice was applied, and Gimli gently lifted Legolas upright so that Aragorn could wrap his torso with linin bandages, the binding tight enough to hold the broken ribs in place for them to heal. Aragorn doggedly ignored his own bloodied fingerprints standing so stark against the soft white.

"Have we done enough?"

"It's the best we can do."

"That's not what I asked."

"It's all I can give you."

He was too weakened to maintain the element of him that was the prevailing healer, and the strength he had relied on so desperately abandoned him. Now that it was gone, tremors caught Aragorn's hands up and made them near useless, and all he could see in the waxing light was their crimson coating, feeling the tackiness of congealing blood tighten on his skin and attempt to meld his fingers to each other.

Revulsion mounted in the back of his throat and forced him to his feet. Dimly, Aragorn knew that Gimli called after him, but he had no time to pause and offer an explanation as he staggered through the crowding trees for the river. They were stopping him, trying to keep him from what he _needed_, and twice in his frantic state they managed to herd him into sheer banks, a trout in a fish trap…

The sudden break of oppressive forest to the open light of the pebbled shoreline made his pounding head wheel, and he did not care that he pitched his knees into the water when he all but flung himself down at the river's calm edge. The numbing cold was nothing to him as he plunged his stained hands into the gently lapping surface, flinging wide the shimmering mirror of the first night stars.

Swells of water carried the staining away in lazy wafts, but it was too slow. He scrubbed at his skin in desperation to be clean again, even taking up a stone and drawing it over the tiny channels in his hands, dragging it over the planes of his palms - and stopped. It was not the vigour of the punishing cleansing that halted his actions, or even that the roughness of the stone threatened to flay his skin from his hands. It was the sting in his palms that awoke at the rough treatment, dulled by the frigid water but there all the same, and horror melted into him as his eyes took in the impossible:

A myriad of cuts patterned them in streaks running down his palms, his fingertips scoured and sensitive … cuts that would be synonymous with pulling his body over sharp stones.

Nausea rose in his throat, strong and insuppressible, and what little there was in his stomach left him in a violent purge.

-(())-

It seemed a strange and foreign thing, this span of silence. There was a sharp perfection to its withering embrace, and he wished he could stay wrapped in its folds for the rest of eternity. If he could meld with it, if he could become as much a part of the silence as the clouds on high, or the wintering trees, or the snow itself, then perhaps he could find true peace. It twisted with the snow flurries and coated the trees, numbing the forest to memories of what had just happened beneath the contorted boughs.

But this peace was a lie.

Thranduil did not move. A movement would sully the stillness, and the weight in his heart would not permit him to do so. He simply stood, watching as the fresh snow attempted to cleanse the forest floor of the blood that saturated it. Soon everything would be a smooth carpet of sharp white, and the outside world would be oblivious to what had occurred here. Yet Thranduil knew that the stains would still be there, and there was no depth of snow nor passage of time that could possibly erase the memory of what had happened in this place. Three of his kin had fallen here today, and neither he nor the forest would ever forget.

The narrowest point of the river slipped before him, a black band cutting boldly through stark white. He could leap it, if he had a mind to. The distance was not great, it would take only a stretch of effort for an elf to clear it … but to do so would be suicidal. For the river, constant and unassuming, was their last line of defence. It was the barrier between life and death, the last stand of the elves of the wood… And it was seeking to betray them.

Even as Thranduil observed, clods of ice were harried down the water's course. Most of it jostled its way downstream, but some of it succeeded in catching in the jagged contours of the banks. It was naught but a matter of days before the black water would become a white bridge. Seldom did the ice become thick enough in other stretches of the river to cross without risk, but where the water bottlenecked at this point, it often froze solid enough to bare considerable weight … and the orcs knew this just as well as the elves did. They _had_ to hold it. If their defences failed at this juncture, everything would be lost.

It promised to be a very long winter.

Sharper cold snapped his hair into his face. He could hear them from across the bank, their guttural tongue not far enough away to be dismissed, but not close enough to be deemed a threat at that moment. They had lost many today. Thranduil could smell their corpses from where he stood, abandoned without a care to the few scavengers of the night that still dared to wander the old paths.

Thranduil lifted his eyes to the sky through the thick net of the tree branches. The pregnant clouds were taking on the dark weight of coming night. It would not be long until it all started again, when the shy sun was well and truly gone from the skies and the orcs embraced the strength of the darkness. There would be no stars tonight.

But there was a darker oppression pulling on the king, something separate to the nightmarish situation in which he and his people had found themselves marred. Anxiety frayed his nerve and harried his thoughts and distraction pulled on his attention. Something was wrong. He did not know what it was, but it amounted to an unrelenting pulse of fear deep in his breast that made him nauseous whenever he lent it thought.

Something else ruptured the peace, something on his side of the river, and Thranduil felt his heart sag as the angered tones of hot confrontation grew louder:

"Your disrespect disgusts me-"

"Likewise: for you to not allow them the basic right-"

"It is _not_ a right! They are not children-"

Fury now: "_Children? _When did _respect _become-"

"Enough." Weariness dragged his voice down to a quiet shadow of its usual self, but it was enough to silence the two warring parties as they came to a halt behind him. Thranduil took a moment to collect himself before he turned to regard the two elves, casting them each a cool look: Halastore, his lieutenant, and Laehril, Legolas' second. Halastore's lips were pinched in a thin line of righteous conviction, his senior position never relenting the rod of pride seemingly permanently disabling his back. But Halastore had been at Thranduil's side from the beginning, and there were few he trusted more.

Laehril was something quite different: everything about his carriage suggested an almost coltish pride married with his youth. For he was young, _very _young … not much older than Legolas had been when he had first started his warrior training, and certainly not as old has Legolas was when he had actually taken his brother's place in command. Thranduil had thought Legolas' decision to leave the young laegel in his place as foolish and brash, the dangerous whim of an angered captain determined to irk his king through spite. Indeed, Laehril's inexperience was always perfectly clear whenever Thranduil met with his captains, when the prince's second fell into an overwhelmed silence in the midst of so many who – in some cases – had millennia of experience on him.

Right now, Laehril openly seethed, the hot colour of anger patterning high on his cheeks, his eyes dark with almost feral fury. His stance before his king was respectful, his back straight and eyes fixed and forward in preparation to report … but his temper was barely in check, and it would take little to entice him to lose it altogether. Further proof of his inexperience and unsuitability…

"I would care to know," said Thranduil, his irritation with the pair clear in the calm bite of his voice, "why you have both seen fit to show such a disappointing lack of professionalism."

"My King," Halastore stepped forward half a pace in an attempt to monopolise Thranduil's attention. "The acting captain proposes to further endanger the lives of those not only under his command, but all others else as well."

Laehril shot the other elf a look of fire before he remembered himself and pulled his eyes forward.

Incredulity raised Thranduil's brow. "Really? And how, pray tell, will he manage to achieve this?"

"I seek to fulfil the wishes of my warriors, nothing more," Laehril injected through gritted teeth.

"Laegrim foolishness!" Halastore shot back. "Typical of a lae-"

Thranduil's patience was rapidly fraying. "If neither of you are capable of telling me what the actual argument is here, I will reissue your commands to others with a greater sense of propriety. Are we clear?"

He meant it, and the ensuing silence informed him that they knew he did. Thranduil's mood was rapidly slipping, and it was in the better interests of his two officers that they reveal the crux of the issue to him swiftly.

"Laehril and his command wish to sing, my King." Derision rang through Halastore's statement, echoed in his eyes as open distain.

Surprise lifted Thranduil's brow. "They wish to _sing_?"

"It is a lament, not a child's ditty," Laehril snapped. The sharp retort was fired at Halastore, but its direction had still gone to the wrong person, and the youth cowed at the flare of anger in his king's face. But his brazen attitude pushed through his embarrassment: "We wish to honour our fallen kin through a lament as we always do, my King. That is all we ask."

"It is a foolish beacon to our enemies of weakness! Sire, if we do this, we leave ourselves wide open."

Despite Halastore's fervent protest, Thranduil's interest was trapped by Laehril's proposed intentions. It was so long since he had fought alongside the laegrim that his attentions to their traditions had faded. Two of those three lost today had been from Laehril's detachment … Legolas' detachment.

"The dead will be honoured on our return to the Halls, as they always are."

"I beg your forgiveness, my King, but the laegrim traditions of respect are not honoured by the sindarin means."

"That is the way those who fall are honoured," Halastore interjected, moving in on what he heard as support for his argument from his king.

Laehril gave a derisive snort. "Yes: in the Halls, where few laegrim will tread. You will honour children of the forest in a house of stone where they would never set foot by choice."

While Halastore bristled at Laehril's sharp tone, Thranduil finally thought he understood his son's choice: for all Laehril's quiet presence in the councils, his dedication to those under his command was unwavering, even to the point where he was prepared to challenge his king in their defence. He needed to mature, but there was promise there.

"Laehril… Does your prince allow for this?"

Something broke in the youth's eyes, a snap of surprise. He fixed the king with an almost saddened honesty, more open and direct than most dared. It was clear to Thranduil in that moment that he was not the only one who missed the prince … and that there were things he did not know about his own son. "_Yes_."

And Thranduil believed him, even as Halastore openly shook his head and sneered at Laehril's claim. Thranduil was taken by the undeniable sensation that, had Legolas been there, this conversation would not be occurring. He would have overridden Halastore's objections with the weight of his seasoned authority out-right, and this argument would never have escalated as high as the king. Thranduil found it suddenly shaming that any question had been brought to Laehril's intentions at all.

"Then I have no right to stop you."

For the first time that night, both captains were united in their stunned expressions. It was short-lived, as Halastore quickly recovered and moved to object – until Thranduil raised his hand and gave him a silencing look, pitched with warning. Grudgingly accepting the king's ruling, Halastore bowed, clear betrayal in his eyes as he respectfully submitted. Laehril, on the other hand, seemed suddenly hesitant, the fiery zest of his passionate convictions leaving an unsure elfling in their wake.

"What is it, Laehril?"

"Please, Sire … it is the highest-ranking officer who opens the lament."

Surprise raised Thranduil's brow so high it threatened to disappear. Lead the lament? Under sindarin traditions, laments were carried by a minstrel, with whom all others joined in the core of the song. As it was, there were three minstrels in the Halls. All three were charged with safeguarding the lore of their people, and that duty included remembering those who had fallen. But a part of him distantly recalled the laegrim tradition Laehril spoke of, trapped in a web of unwanted memories of a battle long ago in which his father and so many of their kin perished. It had fallen to a much younger Thranduil to do as Laehril was asking of him now, and while Laehril was far too young to remember that awful time, he knew there would be some amongst them who would.

"How you can have the gall-"

"It is alright, Halastore."

Halastore bit off the scathing reprimand at his king's instruction, but the seething glare he flung at Laehril said more than he could ever vocalise. To Laehril's credit, he kept his nervous eyes on his king … and only when Thranduil gave a single nod of agreement to Laehril's request did the young warrior's expression brighten. Laehril extended his hand from his heart in a too-quick bow, and made to leave his king-

"Laehril!"

The elf turned ridged as one of the stone-still trees surrounding them. Worry was in his eyes as he looked back on his king-

"Legolas would be proud of you today."

The young captain's eyes softened, and Thranduil felt something change between them, something deeper than a granted request could ever reach. His silver head dipped respectfully, and he was gone.

"Never did I think I would be bested by a sapling."

Thranduil gave a weary smile at Halastore's beaten remark. "Neither did I, my friend, yet here we are." He paused, then: "He is young and has much to learn yet, but he is not so undeserving … perhaps we should lend him our attentions more readily in future."

It was a soft rebuke as well as a suggestion, but Halastore bowed to it: he might hold contempt for a captain so young and not placed by the official means, but his respect for his king was boundless, and if this was Thranduil's desire, he would see it through.

With that as his parting word, Thranduil left his captain in the snow for the nearest tree. A leap to a low branch and a spring, and he was in the boughs as he had not been in centuries, embraced by the many iron-cold arms of the beech. A shower of powdered snow tumbled from his chosen limb at his weight, the fact that so many years had lapsed since he had last been in a tree betraying him. Thranduil stilled, listening. The song of the river garbled as it pulled sluggishly over its bed. He could hear the soft landing of thickening snowflakes, like the padding of countless cats, and if he really listened, the slowed life-force of the tree he occupied could be detected under its winter blanket, groaning at the cold and dreaming of summer.

But above the sounds of winter peace, of life, he heard the growing snarls of the enemy. The darkening skies sapped the light from the forest, pressing the stark black of the trees against the blue shadow of the deepening snow. Approaching was the favoured time of the orc, and even now, Thranduil could hear their demonic snarls becoming more prevalent as they hounded the sun into hiding.

They had no right to be there. They had no right to be in his lands, terrorising and murdering his people. It disgusted and enraged him that their filth had so successfully swarmed through the forest.

His voice opened to the night, defiant and proud. He sang for those who were lost, and for those who grieved them. Even through the gravity of the song, Thranduil felt his fëa glide, and when the song passed to those around him, any fears he might have harboured that it would not be taken up were dismissed. A chorus of voices rose to meet him, strong and sweet, spanning wide from the trees surrounding him with their spectre-like archers, to the warriors far from the riverbank. And he was delighted for Laehril when he heard not only the laegrim, but the sindarin amongst them.

All present arrived under one banner, but now they were as a single people, united through loss to set aside their cultural divides. There was not an elf in the forest who did not feel the desperation of their situation, none who did not morn the destruction of the forest and the loss of kin … but they had not carried their loss together since the War, and that was far too long.

Somewhere in the trees to Thranduil's right, a hidden archer lifted his voice high above the others and diverted the song from its original course. A pause, and other voices climbed to join him: they no longer sang for the fallen, but for the living, an ancient laegrim war song of strength and courage, of light and heart. Across the river, dismayed shrieks and hateful jeers rose against the wall of elven unity, afraid of the light rising in the forest where there should be none-

A warning call, sharp and separate to the song:

The song snapped. Where the trees had channelled the strength of elven voices across the forest, silence fell. Those on the ground melded so perfectly with their surroundings that wayward travellers could be forgiven for believing that some spell had emptied the forest completely … until a second cry rang out: _elven rider_.

From the murk, the pounding of galloping hooves reverberated through the trees, and a single rider suddenly emerged through the snow flurries, his honey-coated mare steaming and snorting as he pulled her to a sudden stop. Elves rushed to meet him, trying to calm the flighty mare as her master dismounted, an elf with golden hair and amber eyes…

Thranduil felt his heart plummet. He prayed that this was some minor quibble that had brought his most trusted friend out here into danger, a foolish misjudgement on Daerahil's part that would be resolved in a moment. But he knew as he left his tree that Daerahil would never choose to leave the Halls lightly. Whatever this was, it was grave, and the look in the eyes of his trusted friend told him so as he approached. Never had he seen them so heavy. Fear coiled in his gut to know what could possibly take the light so completely from Daerahil's honey gaze.

Daerahil said nothing as Thranduil approached, merely holding out a tight, tiny scroll…

-(())-

Time abandoned Aragorn in much the same manner as the water pulled over the falls: immeasurable, unstoppable. He was rendered into a subdued quiet, silenced by the weight of his own thoughts. At some point, he had edged away from the water, but the cold had its grip on his legs, biting down like a dog on the throat of a dear. Aragorn could not find it within himself to care.

The unparalleled headache … the vivid 'dream' … knowing above his trained healer's sense that Legolas lived…

He understood now, and the sheer power of realising what he had done, what he – what _they_ – had so narrowly escaped should not have been possible. What in the name of Arda had he wielded in place of his sword? What was he, that he could overthrow the Nazgûl, even for so short a time? How had they managed to pull Legolas' fëa into such a vile place? Aragorn had never known that such a world existed. It seemed like a realm in which the Nazgûl had total power … what did it make him, that he could follow? Who was he, that he had the ability to equal them in their own world? The truth of what had happened was frightening … but the mounting catalogue of unanswered questions were equally so.

Yet despite the unanswered questions and clamouring doubts, all he could envision in his mind were those black blades, ripping into Legolas' fëa with savage abandon. The sound of the thrushes greeting the night were overwhelmed by the archer's agonised screams, the sharp glint of the emerging stars dulled by the cruel glimmer of jagged swords…

_Oh, Legolas … what have they done to you?_ A finger glided over the cross hatch of scores in his palm. If this was how his encounter with the Nine manifested itself, what damage had they wrought on Legolas? He did not want to think on the implications of what they could have done to him, but the more he resisted, the more intense the thoughts became, hammering at his walls like an unstoppable disease…

Discomfort tugged at the back of his skull. It was not his own: a tiny beacon to him that he recognised now from their shared horror. It peaked, and subsided into nothing. He likened it to a blunt needle pressing into numbed flesh. A space of empty moments, and it was there again, sharper. His call to go. Aragorn dashed water over his face and swilled his mouth, forcing his numb legs to work for him and take him back to camp.

The uneven, rich gilding of fire on the flanks of the trees guided him back to their camp. It was more vibrant than the one he had left behind, fed and merry in its nest of shadows. The dwarf sat on the rotting log on the other side of it seemed framed with flame, the orange light catching in his beard and hair and making him look like some kind of fire spirit. But it was to Legolas that Aragorn went. He pressed his fingertips into the elf's pulse point, feeling his lifeblood fly too fast and too weak under the careful pressure, his skin hot with climbing fever.

"He's not moved."

Aragorn straightened at the quiet statement and joined his friend. He sat heavily in the leaf litter, preferring to lean his back into the dead wood of Gimli's seat than share it with him. Silence sat with them, unpunctuated by the anticipated questions from dwarf to man. It was a surprise, but it was welcome: Aragorn did not feel that he had it in him to answer any of the questions that doubtlessly writhed in Gimli's head, and he was thankful that they were not broached. But he _was_ subjected to a shameless level of scrutiny. Aragorn tried to ignore it, but it was akin to Lord Elrond inspecting his writing when he was a boy, and he felt unbelievably self-conscious.

But before Gimli could broach whatever it was that teetered on the edge of his tongue, Aragorn felt a sharp and constant _pull_ at the edge of his mind. Before Legolas' awakened pain came as a cracked exclamation from his lips, Aragorn was beside him. The archer's eyelids fluttered, his breathing coming in sharp intakes as he rediscovered the damage to his chest and struggled against it. He attempted to twist away from it, but succeeded only in pushing himself against a wall of pain and choked out a ragged gasp –

"Sedho - hodo, Legolas!" Aragorn urged. "You mustn't struggle. Be still-"

-(())-

Consciousness broke through and snatched him from the cavern of oblivion in which he had somehow managed to hide. The sensation of sickening weightlessness plucked at him, like he was completely adrift in an endless expanse of water. To make it worse, a great serpent of nausea writhed in the pit of his stomach and quickly raised its ugly sights to his throat. He tried for a deeper breath to quell it-

Deep and raw agony was his only reward. The breath that was meant to steady him felt hot and airless as forge heat. Every fibre of his being thrummed with its power, and his body sang back, too hot, too cold, unable to stand the harsh and unrelenting cord of pain. The strength of his misery dominated his need to stay still and vocalised itself with a treacherous choking cry.

With a pulse of despair, he realised that feeling came with existence, and that in turn meant that he had not somehow escaped. He had not faded, he had not dissipated into nothingness, and he had no memory of what had become of Estel. He was still a prisoner, still as helpless as a child's play thing and completely under their control.

Dark utterings of his own name spoken in a black tongue leaked through his flesh and poisoned his blood, relishing his pain and wanting more. He would give anything to stop existing, to become little more than a lost memory. Even though it could only be the end, he refused to open his eyes to them: if he could preserve one last part of himself from their corruption, it would be his eyes … his mother had loved his eyes…

How cruel it was that he had not died that first night.

"_Legolas … look at me."_

_No - I will not-_

There were no reserves left to draw on, no more walls he could use to protect the lethal secret he kept in his heart. Why did they still toy with him, when he was laid completely bare to them?

"_Look at me, Legolas."_

Something lighted on his arm – a hand, a grasping claw, reaching for his flesh again-

"Don't … don't touch me…" It was meant to be a show of defiance, a blast of strength backed by the might of his race … but even his voice mocked him as it emerged as little more than a pathetic whimper, the whine of a crippled pup. And he _hated _himself for it, true, vehement hatred. "_Don't touch me!_"

A violent jerk, and he snatched his arm back. The shock of the sharp action hurt and his throat betrayed that to his tormentors. Without his instruction, his eyes flew open on his attackers, and the last shield he had against them was gone.

He was in a cage of shadows, rotting faces grinning at his plight, their open malevolence pouring over him in rancorous waves. But the thing that really terrified him was the melting face of the Witch-king above him, empty sockets boring through him and searching out the last of his secrets. He was speaking, saying his name, the words oozing from his grisly tongueless maw, toxic and smothering-

Terror made him fight past the pain to shove the demon from him – but his arm was caught in a grip of strength he could not counter, his body crushed into submission. A sob melded with bitter, sickening fear and ripped from his throat when his other arm was trapped and he tried to twist away-

Searing agony sheered through his wrist. He screamed – he could not hold it back-

"_Aragorn!_" A voice separate to the nightmares, gruff and harsh with surprise and anger.

A closer voice bit back, coloured red with anger and strain-

As soon as the crushing grip had come, it relinquished. The clawed fingers did not completely let go, but the hold was suddenly gentle, almost too light to notice, but Legolas could not stand to look upon the spider-like grip, encapsulating the total damning power they had over him in one simple hold…

"Legolas! Saes, mellon nin! _Look at me!_"

There was a voice he knew, a voice he should not be hearing … but it was so near, so strong … more powerful than the foul whispers in the dark. He could hear the quiet bickering of the flames of a small fire. High branches gossiped with the wind, and creatures of the night jostled leaf litter as they foraged for food. Distantly, the forceful roar of tumbling water sounded with unstoppable might…

The command came again, Aragorn's voice pleading and strained. And he obeyed. Because it was _Aragorn_ who willed him to do so,_ Aragorn_ who had done the impossible and followed where none should ever tread…

Framed by the night above them was not the decaying face of evil, but a face he knew well, coloured warm amber on one side by firelight that caught in his silver eyes and turned them gold. The winter wind caught in his untidy hair and jostled it about his face, but he had no care for it, as he never had. Stress pinched at his eyes and mouth, but the tired smile of relief he gave Legolas, of a hard battle won, erased some of the evidence. There was nothing about Aragorn's countenance that suggested he feared the shades that had plagued his elven friend.

"Quel undome."

Legolas felt his brow furrow, the action catching at the bruising there. He turned his attention beyond Aragorn to the encroaching shadows. What had been leering demons delighting in his suffering were now majestic beech trees, tall and non-threatening as they guarded their camp.

Over Aragorn's shoulder, he glanced the dwarf, hovering uncertainly and clearly struggling to find a comfortable way of being in their company.

He tried for a deeper breath and immediately wished he had done no such thing. His chest was a mess of pain, but there was something different about it, and he groggily realised that his ribs were being restrained. A leaden hand tried to explore the new tightness, and his fingers brushed over precisely bound material-

"Let it alone," Aragorn chided. Legolas' questing hand was gently removed and positioned back at his side. Even if he had wanted to, he did not think he could lift it again. The roughness of bark snagged at his face, and he knew he lay at the foot of a tree. Beneath the cool hard skin, he could sense the enduring life of the living sculpture, steady and wonderfully alive.

Water was offered to his lips without need for him to ask. He drank deeply, only then realising how truly thirsty he was. The coldness of the water was in sharp contrast to the dry furnace of his throat, and he was so grateful for it, he could have wept. When the flask was finally taken away, he could do nothing save breathe. Every breath was a short snatch of air, shallow and fast. He could feel his heart fluttering and bucking like a panicked bird caught in netting. Another attempt at moving-

"Be still," Aragorn advised. The ranger pressed his hand into Legolas chest, emphasising his words with the firm touch. It was a healer's instruction, the version of Aragorn who would not be disobeyed. "Your body needs you to suffer it a little leniency right now."

Legolas had encountered this version of Aragorn before, the assertive healer who had adopted the indomitable nature of his tutor. It would prove a foolish decision to try and defy him: while Aragorn was not quite as merciless as Lord Elrond, he possessed his severity. All Legolas could do was as he was bid. Even if he truly wished to resist, he did not have the strength for it.

The dark was a tight blanket. The stars were stolen from his view … whether they were jealously concealed by cloud or dimmed from his sight by his own weakness, Legolas did not know … but their absence pained him. Even the moon did not choose to look down on him. The only source of light was the fire, nestled in the centre of their camp like a complacent guard dog: throwing the advance of the shadows, but not with enough force to banish them completely. And it was so _cold_…

When he drew his wandering gaze back, he found that he was being analysed with unforgiving scrutiny. The thrown shadows across the ranger's frowning face mercilessly displayed every care the man had like flourishing penwork across parchment. He looked bone weary, the weight of the world on his shoulders and pulling the joy from his eyes. It was sad.

"You look awful."

Aragorn snorted at the quip. "Perhaps you'd revise that statement if you could see yourself."

Legolas smiled tiredly, his eyelids sagging. A tremor of shivers convulsed his body, the discomfort they enticed warping his brow still further and gritting his teeth. Flashes of searing heat and deep chill burned his brow and stroked his skin uncomfortably. Fogging numbness claimed his head with a sickening weightlessness, a sensation he was familiar with …

Legolas' breath snagged in alarm, and he could only look in horror at his friend's face as the shadows cast into stark relief by the throw of the firelight bled into unnatural red, the amber glow of Aragorn's illuminated skin blotching with virulent green. The ranger's suddenly jet black hair was silhouetted against a sky of dark purple. Desperate to stop it, he shuttered his eyes and angled his head down towards his chest, willing it to leave him alone… But the world tipped and bucked violently away from him anyway, and Legolas felt his weak grip on control fall away…

He thought Aragorn might have called out to him – he felt his hand close over his arm – but he heard nothing.

His body erupted into a trap of agonising spasms. Waves of sickness contorted his stomach and toyed with the back of his throat. The pain tore into him as it had done on so many occasions now, and he did not know how much more of it he could stand … his flesh could be shredded from his bones and he might not feel so much blinding agony.

And then it was gone. As viciously as it had ensnared him, it let go. His body trembled uncontrollably in the aftermath, and he was too hot … too cold… And so, so tired.

Legolas only realised he had clenched his eyes when he felt his eyelids flutter with the effort of keeping them so tight. Even then, he resisted the desire to open them for fear of what he would see…

The archer started at the hand that lighted so gently on his shoulder, and his eyes disobeyed him. It was Aragorn's hand that touched him and the ranger maintained the connection. The seemingly ever-present worry that had marked his features so distinctly was nothing but a shadow compared with the open alarm that warped them now. Even now, Aragorn's features swam in an ethereal haze that further aggravated Legolas' nausea. It was too much to stomach, and he turned his gaze away.

"How often does this happen?" Quiet, assessing, a healer's pledge for information through the voice of a friend. It was clear from the set of his question that Aragorn had surmised that this was not a one-off.

"Sometimes." His voice was little more than a throaty whisper, but for the energy it sapped from him, it could have been a holler. His throat was dry and cracked as it had not been before, and he thought he might have screamed. "It comes on…" Legolas' voice melted from him. Admitting out loud that this had happened before frightened him, and expanding on the little he had revealed exceeded what he could stomach himself.

Aragorn was silent, and Legolas wandered dully what he was going to say. When he said nothing on the matter at all, Legolas was surprised, but almost overwhelmingly grateful. He did not want to think on it now that it had mostly past … he did not want to face whatever it could be.

Finally the ranger straightened, having reached some conclusion within himself that set his jaw and brought a strength of resolve to his eyes that had previously been lacking. "I'm going to give you poppy milk." It was a statement, completely devoid of the opportunity for his patient to argue or resist, and he ensured that fact came across loud and clear as Aragorn retrieved the glass phial from his pack.

_Poppy milk? _The words sank into Legolas' understanding with all the speed of a twig in quicksand. Poppy milk … dangerously potent, and the strongest drug known to his people. He had never been given it before, but he knew what it did. The suggestion prompted him to find his friend's face. Aragorn's countenance was difficult to keep in focus as he moved in the firelight, the darker aspects of his profile melding with the surrounding pitch. The frayed concern of the friend and the innate knowledge of the healer in Aragorn had finally concluded their internal battle, and it was the healer preparing to drug him senseless.

"I would have you rest, Legolas," Aragorn stated as he measured out a shot of liquid from a separate flask into a cup. "If you take the poppy, your pain will be masked from you, and you will be able to sleep."

"Poppy fogs the senses…" Legolas stated tiredly. His eyelids sagged shut, but not in rest.

"I know," said Aragorn. Legolas could hear the lopsided grin his lips had adopted in his voice. "That is the point of it."

"I don't … I do not want it."

"At what point did what I say sound like I was offering an option?"

"_Aragorn-!_"

The knife of pain severed the sharp exclamation from him. It was so sudden he was not prepared for it, not this time. Every fibre in his body tightened to the point of snapping. Taking control again was like fighting to stay a landslide with a blade of grass. He wanted to die, he wanted so badly to be rid of this unbearable form of existence that had somehow become him –

It could have been seconds, it could have been hours. When the cruelty of his pain finally released him to tremble in fear and exhaustion, he was no longer in the cold bed of the beech bole. He was encompassed in a tender hold of controlled strength, sheltered against any other wrongs the world might have for him by the strong body of a brother. The warm scents of wool and leather reaching out to him were calming in their striking familiarity. He could feel the steady rhythm of Aragorn's heartbeat under his damp cheek as he was held to the ranger's chest, contrasting so vividly against his own flying pulse, and he knew he should push away, that he should not be so weak … but there was no part of him that could be persuaded to do so.

Legolas had no concept of how long he was cradled, or of how long it took for the silent tears to cease. And it hurt him to hear the sorrow in Aragorn's voice as he made his request once more: "Legolas, my friend, I am begging you: take the poppy."

-(())-

Beneath the whitening net of branches far to the north, a hunting cat paced in a cage of captors.

Tension held the muscles of the Woodland King in tight knots, binding his body into an unrelenting state of readiness to which he would ultimately fall foul. He was ready for flight, physically primed to bolt … and it had nothing to do with the threat from across the river. The very same tension that made his body so unrelentingly rigid set a dangerous fire in his eyes. Right now, as he stalked the centre of the ring of the hastily gathered council of his commanders and captains, every face he encountered was a careful mask of schooled indifference.

His child was endangered, and his lords refused his release to go to him.

It mattered nothing to them how much he stormed and threatened, and they closed themselves to his open agony with only Eryn Galen in their minds. Even so, only the most confident could meet the king's eyes as he searched for a single soul who would support him. There were many amongst their number who lacked the conviction of their words to display their support of the council ruling with a steady stare. Thranduil was not the only father in attendance…

But he was the only king, and in that one fact alone lay his isolation.

Daerahil could not blank Thranduil's desperation as the others could. Sitting as a part of the ring of lords in attendance grated against his instinct. It jolted him to see, not Thranduil, but a very young and equally upset Legolas in his place, pacing the confines of his own status and learning very quickly exactly how restrictive his boundaries were. It was truly awful to fetter a father so, but – as Legolas had reluctantly accepted all those years ago – Eryn Galen could not exist without the living blood of the House of Oropher…

"I will not stay idle while my son needs me!" Thranduil spat, grey eyes spearing an all too-collected Lord Tarran.

"We know nothing of the prince's whereabouts," the other elf repeated patiently, unmoved by the barely restrained fury that roiled in the king's eyes. So far as Tarran was concerned, his king's judgement was impeded by emotional stress, and while the king might at that juncture wish to tear _him_ apart, he was merely the voice of those gathered. "It would be foolish to jeopardise your life-"

"He is your_ prince!_"

"And you are our king," Tarran returned, unfazed by the king's explosion. "We are at the weakest we have ever been in three thousand years. The lords were neither consulted nor informed of the prince's plans: Prince Legolas has ensured that this was a private venture, undertaken at his own risk. He has removed himself of his responsibilities, and so has in turn removed himself from ours."

The words were like a sabre. Daerahil saw the wound they tore through his own soul reflected in Thranduil. Something snapped in Thranduil's eyes, whatever fine thread that had kept the balance between father and king gone. The set of his shoulders buckled from the proud and commanding ruler of their lands, to a parent desperately afraid and finding no help from those he believed should be providing it.

Of course Thranduil could not go. It was madness to even consider it … and there was nothing crueller than denying him. For all his brutality, Tarran was right: they had nothing to tell them where Legolas was. Elrond's message had been clipped and short, but the implications of its contents were massive for them all. The king had to remain in the kingdom, he had to stay and orchestrate the defence of their lands … but their chief was compromised by his own heart. Thranduil would not live up to the expectations of his lords. Daerahil had witnessed how Thranduil had floundered with his duties under the breaking weight of his grief when he had lost most of his family in a single year. He had stayed beside his friend on the darkest of nights and had held the council in check on those days when Thranduil had not been able to face them himself.

And this entire situation was his fault.

As much as Daerahil agreed with those gathered, he could not deny the strength of feeling that aligned with Thranduil's plight. It was he whom had plotted with Elrond to send Thranduil's last child with Aragorn. It was he whom had made the decision to actively go behind his friend's back. But for all the years of their planning, he had never really _believed _that any of it would come into fruition. Elrond had been wrong before, it stood to reason that he could be wrong again. It was a plan for the worst, borne of a need to ensure that, should Aragorn choose his path, he would have a guiding force, a companion of unshakable loyalty…

The decision was made and given voice into the frozen air faster than reason could question:

"I will go."

Several pairs of eyes turned on him, forgetting the king in a moment of surprise.

"I will ride south and find the prince."

"_You_, Lord Daerahil?" Halastore queried, leaning forward. "Forgive me, but that is as foolish a notion as any we have heard tonight."

Daerahil's lip quirked in a fleeting semblance of a smile. "I do not think it a foolish suggestion at all," he said. _Careful_. He was not in a council meeting with his normal peers, but with Thranduil's military leaders, and he was altogether unfamiliar with how they thought as a collective group. Not knowing your friends was almost as dangerous as not knowing your enemies… "I can leave now and be in Imladris within four days."

"Idiocy!" Tarran exclaimed with a derisive snort. "Why is it that you think we are here, right now?" he demanded. "Our lands are completely overrun, up to the boundary of _that _river-" he gestured south of their gathering and not fifty feet away, to where a sluggish strand of water separated them from the evil plague beyond. "You think _they_ will let you pass? You would not survive long enough to see the _dawn!_"

It was not an unexpected counter to his argument, but Daerahil resented the delay all the same. But to his surprise, there were eyes amongst their number that seemed softened towards his idea, not least of all young Laehril, whose brow was set in tight anger. "A single rider who knows the lay of our lands would be more than an even match against them. My horse is fleet. If I ride hard enough-"

"You will kill your horse as well as yourself."

"-If I ride hard enough, I will reach the mountain pass before it seals completely."

A run of disagreement rippled through the collected officers.

"This is not a plan that will end well," Halastore remarked with a shake of his head. "Who is to say that the passes will not already be sealed?" When he fixed his eyes with Daerahil's, their warning was weighted. "If you get to the mountains and cannot pass, there will be no escape for you from them."

The truth in his words sent a shiver of fear down his spine. He would never succeed in travelling unseen through the overrun stretches of the forest, not at the speed he needed to travel. And if he did reach the mountains and find the way closed, he would be cornered and taken.

"The snows started late-"

"And look around us!" Tarran interrupted, gesturing with a flick of his hands at the deepening carpet about them. "Look at how deep it has become in the space of an evening, and you think it will be clear in the _mountains?_"

"It passes my understanding," came the barely restrained voice of the youngest captain, "how we can be _sitting here _while my prince needs us!" A pause, then: "_I _will ride out."

"You will do no such thing!" Halastore cut in sharply. "You were entrusted with command, and you will honour that agreement!"

Daerahil could see the shake of anger to Laehril's frame, the emotions Daerahil successfully schooled into check so clearly depicted in the youth's open agitation with his peers. While Daerahil found himself regarding Legolas' chosen second with new admiration, Halastore and Tarran both turned on their young comrade with open contempt, ready to tear savage teeth through his youthful naivety-

"He goes."

Silence. All eyes found the king again, a somehow forgotten entity in their midst, standing in the heart of their circle with the stillness and grace of a listening hart. Snowflakes lighted his hair like a wreath of down, seemingly crowning the king of the forest anew. But his eyes … there was something new in them, an unknown darkness…

A darkness focused unerringly on Daerahil.

"For it is thanks to you that he is gone, is it not, old friend?"

Daerahil's gut dropped. Their eyes were locked, Thranduil's stare unwavering as his hair snapped in the wind and snow billowed around him, his sharp grey focus far colder than winter's hardest bite. Daerahil lacked even the capacity to blink under their condemning hold, and he was not released even as Thranduil gave the order for his officers to disband and return to their posts. He felt the looks of the others light on him uncertainly before they left, attempting to find some reason behind the king's words in the set of Daerahil's face, wondering what the closest friend of the king could have possibly done. Even with their judging stares, Daerahil would have had them stay.

All too soon, it was just they two: a king burning with a rage of which he did not yet know the boundaries, and his friend, remorse and justification warring violently enough in his head to tear him apart. Daerahil's feet took him across the short distance, trying to find some level of the equality they had always shared.

"Thranduil…"

"Were you ever going to tell me?" The king's voice was quiet, ringing with a depth of betrayal that burned Daerahil to hear. The flurries of snow that otherwise muted the world around them failed to infringe the cold anger in Thranduil's tone. "Or did you presume me blind enough to not guess at the games you played with Elrond?"

Whatever he said now, he knew Thranduil would not hear it. Daerahil felt the thousands of years of friendship between them bowing under the pressure of his own actions. How Thranduil had learned of his part in Elrond's active plans to involve Legolas in Aragorn's fate, Daerahil did not know. It did not really matter. What had happened was done.

"Thranduil … you know I love Legolas as a son -"

"Don't you _dare!_" Thranduil snarled, turning with a flash of rage into a savage wolf, teeth bared and eyes stark with unfettered fury, wild and cold. "How could you?" Their breath mingled together into one plume, they were so close. Everything about Thranduil trembled with a very real threat of violence, but Daerahil did not back step. The gnawing sensation of guilt dominating his stomach would welcome a strike should one come. _Valar know I deserve it_.

"You just - _took_ him! _My _son! My _only_ son, and you _piss away his life _on one of Elrond's meddling schemes!" Thranduil shook his head, his anger pinching his lips into a tight line. "When?"

Daerahil did not require an expansion on Thranduil's demand. He knew the answer too well, and rued the day he had even thought about taking it to Elrond. "When Legolas' gift of foresight first started to show itself."

Thranduil's face wiped momentarily in shock. "You have been conspiring with Elrond for over two hundred _years?_" The king stepped back, distancing himself and leaving Daerahil to the cold, his lips apart in reflection of his open horror. "Why have you even come here, Daerahil?"

"I came for you-"

"Do _not _say that to me!" Thranduil snapped, an irrepressible snarl dominating his features. "Do not profess that this is through some false sense of friendship! Your presence here is for you to assuage your guilt, not for me, not for him." The king shook his head to himself, his rage melting into something softer, something more damaging. "Always, I have thought of you as a brother. Now, I see no-one I know before me."

The look Thranduil gave him … it was as though he shared a stare with a stranger. Keeping their friendship was like cupping smoke in his hands, and Daerahil knew with a keening cry of his heart that it was lost as the king uttered: "There is nothing more we can say to each other."

The quiet sentence paralysed time. Only the snow was unaffected, spiralling about them in an ignorant play of innocence and purity. It sought to cover the two elves stood so still, melding with their hair and coating their shoulders. But it could not erase the wrongs inflicted here as it so easily could the bloodied ground.

"Thranduil… I am sorry."

Those eyes, so dead of warmth and friendship … there was no apology he could make that would be enough. It could never be enough.

It was Thranduil who broke their stillness. The silver of his eyes marbled with the darkness of grief and betrayal, and his shoulders sagged, forgetting the dangerous tension of anger and knowing nothing save defeat. He stepped back, distancing himself and making to turn away. When he spoke, he did so into the frigid night air, his eyes to the river. "Leave, Daerahil: I do not want to hate you."

Daerahil paled at the implication of his friend's words and he thought to counter them, drawing forward with an extended hand – but Thranduil shied from his touch with the slightest shift of his shoulder and a warning glance at that offering of peace. Distressed but knowing better, Daerahil let his hand fall back to his side…

In the not too-far distance, the wind carried the mocking shrieks of their enemies through the trees. But it was the sharp zip of arrows that caused Thranduil to baulk. He needed to return to the front, he had stayed behind too long…

Yet still he tarried, igniting the touch-paper of Daerahil's hope as his weighted stare met again with his own. So much damage had been wrought to their friendship … Daerahil would take anything Thranduil had for him, _anything_, just to know that age-old connection between them still existed. The harshest scorn, the most vicious and biting comments, even a strike … he would welcome it all. But as Thranduil's silence pulled at Daerahil's anticipation, there was nothing that could have prepared him for the quiet question the king eventually voiced.

"Would you send your own son into such danger? Or just mine, whom you love as your own?"

Daerahil's heart froze. His breath caught in his chest on the knife of Thranduil's words. All his years bandying quick words with the council, using his tongue with the skill of a seasoned warrior, and there was nothing he could possibly say in answer. Helplessness shook his head, his desperate stare begging forgiveness and understanding where he knew now there could never be any.

Another volley of unseen arrows tore at the silence, and Thranduil stepped forth to the call of battle, having not so much as a parting look for the one he had once called brother.

It was in a daze that Daerahil found his mare and mounted, ignoring the curious look he was given by the one holding her, only dimly aware that he had few provisions for the journey he was about to make. There was no part of him that could care about himself as he turned her head to the west, gathering the reins to get a sufficient feel of her mouth-

He did notice the hand that took her bridle, quelling her excitement with a quieting touch…

_Stopping my flight of disgrace._

He could see that it was Halastore, though he could not grant him so much as a glance, the shame sitting too hot and thick for him to dare meet eyes with another.

"Daerahil," he toned urgently, his voice pitched for his ears only. "Legolas would have left with Aragorn, with or without your influence. Riding out like this…" He shook his head despairingly. "This is folly."

"I have to make it right." Daerahil noted how dead his own voice sounded to his ears, a shadow consorting with the dark.

"And you can make it right by giving your life needlessly? Think on what you do!"

"There is nothing to think on." With that, he kicked his horse, forcing Halastore to release her and move out of the way. She threw her head at the sharper than usual instruction, lunging forward without hesitation. Halastore watched with a heavy heart as mount and rider were swallowed by the night.

-(())-

"Is that all he gets? Three drops?"

Aragorn cast Gimli a sideways glance at the dwarf's incredulous question as he carefully measured the poppy milk into the cup of alcohol. He barely dared breathe lest it shook his hand. "I want him to sleep through the night, not eternity," he supplied darkly. Even three drops pushed the boundaries of what Legolas could safely take, and Aragorn's capacity for taking risks was well exceeded. The alcohol he used was no more than a drop to properly disperse the poppy, but, wanting to increase his chances of Legolas taking it and keeping it down, Aragorn diluted the solution with water. Even so, this was a very powerful drug. He could only implore the Valar that they show some level of mercy where there had previously been none, and allow Legolas this one relief free of complications.

When he returned to the elf's side, the lack of clarity in the eyes that met his own was an unneeded confirmation that this was the right thing to do. Raising Legolas back into his arms and leaning him into his chest so that he could drink without straining his wound, Aragorn decisively set aside his reservations and tipped the liquid against Legolas' lips. But with a bite of frustration on his part, the offering was not immediately accepted, as though the misgivings Aragorn had managed to dismiss had transferred to his patient.

Aragorn was too worn for this. He ached in both body and heart, and he recognised a level of selfish desire to have some respite himself. With the acknowledgement came no shame, to his surprise, an indication of his own desperation for some reprieve. There would be no rest for him while Legolas openly suffered – he would probably find none even when his brother slept – but he _needed _the opportunity.

"Legolas. Please."

His voice was no more than a thin veil over the strength of his own despair, and as much as it invoked a sense of disgust in himself, Legolas listened. Damaged as Legolas' defences were, his reluctance was little more than a final display of defiance, and no matter how much he might wish to, the archer did not possess the strength of will to overpower Aragorn's wishes. Not entirely willing, but not wanting to further exacerbate Aragorn's pain, Legolas drank. A grimace shook his features at the bitterness of the drug and aggressive burn of the alcohol, but he obediently consumed every drop.

There they stayed, Aragorn watching sharply for signs of the poppy beginning to take hold. Tension still thrummed through Legolas' body, wound tight through pain and anxiety. The anticipated tell-tale relaxing of the muscles in Legolas' back were long in coming, and Aragorn had to quell the anguish that incited in him. Legolas could not be given more, and he did not know what he would do if the poppy did not work. But it was a waiting game they played, he knew that better than any. _His pain is great. It's not surprising it's not worked yet. Give it time…_

"Is there anything I can get for you?" Aragorn queried softly, unable to stand the irrational sensation of inaction.

"A new body might be nice…" Legolas quipped tiredly.

It was little more than a flare, a glimmer of the Legolas he knew before Wraiths and Rings of Power and loneliness, and Aragorn gave a small buck of laughter, even as he felt his throat tighten. A breath and a careful swallow, and he steadied himself. "I shall keep my eyes open for a spare. Anything else I'd be more likely to find?"

Silence was the only answer he received. Despite the drug he had just administered, Aragorn found any silence from Legolas terrifying – but when he looked down into his friend's face, what he saw surprised him. Legolas would not return his stare, even though Aragorn knew his state of awareness had picked up from mere minutes ago. The archer's dark eyes were fixed on the gently bickering flames of the camp fire. The fickle amber veil of light over his face plucked and skittered over the dark bruises and ruptured skin with a cruel level of definition, ghosting over the swelling under his eyes and hollowness of his cheeks.

Finally:

"Mortals must be stronger than the Eldar think."

He did not understand. "In what sense, Legolas?"

"I do not know how you can stand having your hands so cold." Legolas pulled his attention away from the fire and gave it to Aragorn. He tried for a smile, but it buckled under the very real fear that leaked into the dulled blue of his eyes as Aragorn took his hands to test this cold for himself. They were not cold: they were icy. Even in sickness, it was not normal for an elf to be so terribly cold. Aragorn swallowed and engulfed the slender hands in his own.

"Aragorn…"

"It's alright, Legolas," Aragorn lied, the words tripping from his tongue perhaps a little too quickly to be convincing. He pressed and prised the archer's hands through his own to work some semblance of warmth into them. "Your body is fighting your fever: it is better that it concentrates on making you better than keeping your hands warm, do you not think?" He tried for a smile then, turning his face quickly when he felt it buckle.

Life does not tend to allow for choice. It is too heavily constrained by circumstance and fate. There had been no choice for Legolas when he leapt the river, as no mortal could, to put himself between Frodo and the Nazgûl, and the wound that now dealt him such pain and suffering was a consequence of that. But Aragorn could make a choice now, and he made it freely. Any thoughts he may have half-heartedly harboured of making food were abandoned. Aragorn kept Legolas' hands within the warm confines of his own, moving only to lean into Legolas' tree to ease his back as he settled to take his friend's weight for longer than initially planned.

Legolas' breath snagged at the movement, still battling what must now be the irresistible urge to sleep.

_Come on, Legolas. Let it go._

Still there was that hook of discomfort at the edge of Aragorn's mind … but slowly, it began to ebb away, succumbing to the lulling peace of the poppy. The constant iron tension in Legolas' body began to tremble as it started to release, shivering with the running vibrations of a released bow string before finally settling into calm. Aragorn felt the catch at the corner of his mind let go even as the body in his arms grew slack, the golden head against his chest growing heavy.

Aragorn remained as he was long after Legolas fell asleep, watching the fire as his friend had and gently plying the lax fingers in his hold and willing them to warm.

The muffled crunch of leaves underfoot announced Gimli's coming. The dwarf stopped at Aragorn's shoulder, looking down on the pair of them in prolonged silence. The ranger did not take his eyes from the fire, too lost in the brilliant orange fronds that flirted so shamelessly with the darkness.

"I've stepped in orc spit that's looked better than you."

Aragorn made a sound, half huff, half laugh. He had never forgotten that Gimli was there with him, but his focus on Legolas had isolated the dwarf from his thoughts, and the normality of his frank remark came to him as a thing foreign and strange. "Thank you."

A small flask bumped his shoulder. "Take a swig of this, clear your head."

He knew what was in that flask. Alcohol was the last thing he wanted to encounter: his head still thundered, the sickness in his stomach by no means banished. Now that Legolas slept in his arms, the void left from worrying over Legolas' pain was starting to refill with the gripes of Aragorn's own body. The very idea of drinking Gravlatt was utterly repugnant to him, and he had to quell the sudden surge of irrational irritation that it was being offered to him at all. "I really don't want any…"

The flask gave an impatient shake, refusing his resistance. "You sound like him. Get it down."

Traitorously, he lowered Legolas' hand into the elf's lap to accept the forced offering. There was no power in the attempted withering glare he threw Gimli's way as he took a quick mouthful to shut him up.

In the astonishing moments that followed, he could have sworn that his chest was melting. The brandy jumped right into his head and gave him a sharp mental slap, and it was all he could do to not spit what little remained in his mouth into the carpet of leaves. If he had done, he would likely have started a forest fire. Gravlatt was not new to him, he had suffered for days in his youth after 'testing' some of Glorfindel's supply … but this was very different.

"Have you added something to that?" His voice was a hoarse ghost of its usual self, choking on fire.

Gimli glowed like a proud father. "Ninety years matured."

There was something peculiar about drinking alcohol older than he was, but he could not deny that the affect was profound. It snapped the edge off his tiredness. The ranger's head felt sharper, more together, and he had to appreciate Gimli's pushy insistence, even if the stuff was vile.

The dwarven warrior brought himself round to the fireside, removing his axe and plonking himself gracelessly into the leaf mould so that he could better look on his two companions. His analysing stare was long and unblinking, his beetling eyes black and bronze in the firelight. Aragorn would not return the look, feeling his temper spiking as his own ragged appearance was left no room for privacy. Aragorn found a guilty sense of relief when Gimli's harsh scrutiny fell to the sleeping elf in his hold.

"I thought they didn't sleep with their eyes closed?"

Aragorn could have done without the observation. "They don't." Being so forcefully reminded of Legolas' unnatural state brought the coldness of his hands back to the fore of his attention, and he realised he had stopped trying to warm them. Feeling utterly heartsick, he resumed his efforts.

"What are we going to do?"

"I _don't know_, Gimli!"

The sharp snap was undeserved and it left him raw and open, but he had not the strength to acknowledge the immediate stir of remorse it incited lest he shatter completely. He worked Legolas' long fingers against his palms all the harder, finding the contrast he had not known existed between soft elven skin and an archer's callouses, the thrum of knowing pain that he likely fought for something beyond saving settling deep in his heart. It set a lump in his throat that he could neither swallow nor wish away.

"I don't know..." Aragorn shook his head and leaned it back against the iron-cold tree trunk. His hair snagged on the rough bark, little teasing tugs-

Legolas' body gave way to a brief riot of tremors, little more than the shadowed memories of what he had experienced when he was awake, but there all the same. Aragorn froze, alarmed that this should happen during the archer's induced sleep … but the run of spasms was brief, and Legolas did not otherwise stir. Aragorn breathed out through his nose, trying to loosen the tension setting a persistent ache in his shoulders. This, right now, was quite possibly the very limit of his endurance. He saw no way beyond the night, the morning a distant and impossible dream that he had no right to view as certainty.

"I don't know."

TRANSLATIONS

Sedho, hodo, Legolas – Be still, lie still, Legolas


	19. Chapter Nineteen: Last Man Standing

Okay, this took a little longer than I thought it would, but it's finally here! Here, we're going to see how our old friends are getting on (not so well. You might have guessed), and we're actually - shock horror - going to meet some new ones. Let me know what you think of them! Thank you as always to my lovely supporters: you are all wonderful, and make writing this worth while. And just to squish a rumour: there is nothing going on between Laerhil and Legolas. Nothing. No slash, remember? Please enjoy - sorry it's not as long as my posts tend to be - and please let me know what you think.

Many thanks are owed to Myselfonly, who, once again, listened to my pathetic whines of it's-broken-and-I-don't-know-why, and effectively saved the chapter with her wisdom. Again. Because she's a special brand of awesome. Thank you.

All the best and lots of love,

Ghost

Chapter Nineteen: Last Man Standing

Too many clamouring bodies, too much excitement. Too much noise. Even above the stench of blood and infection, the stink of human fear mingled with their vocalised squawks, a maddening cacophony created by people in the throes of blind panic, and he was finding it infuriatingly distracting. They were there to help him they said, but there was no deficit to his skill sufficient enough for any one of these incompetent curs to take up his slack. Maids milled about the bed, too taken by the tears in their eyes to be of any constructive use. Members of the king's council hovered, surveying the pale young lord lying so still and lifeless and setting his teeth on edge as they whispered in the conspiring language of politics to each other. They were ten or so in number: a level-headed maid was the very pinnacle of his requirement, and there was not even one of those to hand.

Under his deep irritation, he understood why they acted as they did. He understood how the sight of their crown prince so badly hurt and close to death under the chief healer's care wrought such a mighty sense of fear in their hearts…

Birshen understood, but he did not have to sympathise.

"Everyone, leave," he growled, turning on those closest with a snarl like a dog protecting a bone. The noise lapsed at the sound of his command, but too quickly, voices used to being more prominent than his own rose to their former level, dismissive of his request. He was still seen as new here, still the outsider, and they had little cause to respect his authority. This was _his_ domain, damn them!

"Get out!"

Again, he was not heard. Ignored was more like it. His jaw tightened at the shot of disdain the eyes of two conspiring councillors gave at him, dismissive looks that told him he was the outsider, that he had no authority to banish them. And it _burned_, deep in his throat, in his chest, a white hot rage –

The same two men yelped when the pot smashed against the wall by their heads and showered them with powder -

"_GET OUT!_"

The girls scattered, all but flinging the pots of herbs and solutions they carried on the work bench. The men were slower to retreat, not willing to openly display their cowardice, but backing away all the same, perhaps starting to understand that this was Birshen's world, and here, he was the presiding lord. The room emptied, his unblinking pale green glare pushing at the backs of the stragglers until they were gone from his sight through the door.

The probability that he had just set himself a reputation as an aggressive madman was not lost on him, but he could not have cared less. If that was what it took to gain some level of respect, no matter how paltry, he would take it.

Birshen drank deeply of the new silence like a fine wine, relishing its sharpness. There would be repercussions for his actions: those retreating eyes had told him so. You did not make enemies of the council, any fool could tell you that. They could rip you limb from limb through nothing more than the spite of their tongues … but Birshen was still a warrior in his heart, and warriors cared little for the petty workings of politicians. What he _did _care for was laid before him, needing his full attention, and he was prepared to give it to him, no matter how dangerous the means.

_Ai, what a mess this is_… The story was that he was the only survivor … if this could be pinned with such a loose label as 'surviving'. The smell of river water and horse mingled horribly with blood and the sweet bite of infection and fever sweat. Birshen had seen wounds such as the one Prince Théodred had suffered before, and the men who bore them did not get up again. His educated guess was that it was a spear. It mattered little what had caused it, in the end: it was unlikely that he would live. Even if the damage to his abdomen did not kill him, it was almost certain that the infection that already freely raged within the wound would. Still … Birshen was Healer in Chief, and he would be damned if he would not try.

The bench beside Théodred's bed was a riot of pots and water bowls, most of them brought to him in panic, most of them utterly useless. Irritation climbing again, the healer flung those he deemed irrelevant to his work into the far corner with a growl, caring little that several pots smashed where they landed.

"Your temper is worse than I recall."

Another pot sailed through the air, striking the wall and yet remaining unsatisfyingly intact. "If I _recall_," Birshen replied with a drop of sardonic acid, "I told everyone to leave." He turned, his eyes lighting on the man sat behind him. "But seeing as you are the prince's cousin, I think I might make an exception."

Éomer did not pick up their edged banter again, the real anxiety he privately housed displaying itself in the way his own shoulders seemed to crowd him. His hair still hung about his face in untidy wet curtains, made rough by riding through foul weather. In his fear for his cousin, he had not even bothered to remove his armour, preferring to stay within its uncomfortable embrace and be with Théodred, then go to his chambers and change. His hands were kept still only by clenching them in front of himself. He was, in all respects, a typical rider of the Mark: without reins or a sword, his hands itched to be doing something, his mind as restless and desperate to be gone as his stabled horse.

It was a longing they both shared, and something neither of them could have.

"If you would stay," Birshen offered with less bite in his tone to his former commander, "I would have your hands helping me here rather than your eyes watching my back." The healer did not grace the Third Marshall with his attention any longer, bringing his focus back to his charge and caring little for what Éomer chose to do or not do. But he could not deny his satisfaction at the pained creak of the chair as the horseman found his feet and came to his side. They worked in silence, Birshen's mind bent to his task, requesting different requirements of the table with no more than a gesture. Words were not necessary, not between two men who had known each other for as long as they had. They had both been here before … in the field, in the Meduseld … it was all the same, in the end.

"How is … your…?" Éomer cleared his throat uneasily, lighting on the subject that neither wanted to speak of, yet had sat between them for nearly a year.

The healer shrugged his shoulder with artificial nonchalance. The truth? It was agony, the leg to which Éomer referred so uncomfortably. The infection had caused such a mess of scarring that he would always be lame, and standing as they were now felt like the best part of his thigh was being torn from the bone.

Orcish spears were things of purest evil.

"It's fine."

He knew the quick glance he was given was disbelieving, but he would not satisfy Éomer's conviction by acknowledging it. Silence dominated between them, devoid of Birshen's will to expand on his condition, and lacking Éomer's courage to push the subject. Birshen knew Éomer burned with guilt at what had happened to him. It was not his fault. It was not anyone's fault, just poor damned luck.

"This is going to change everything."

It was a quiet statement, an offering to the darkness, and Birshen had to think on the words, he was so taken in by his own wretched thoughts. "Everything changed long before today, Éomer. You just haven't seen it until now."

The cloth destined for his asking hand paused mid-air. "I'm not blind, Birshen."

Birshen raised his eyes from the bloodied side of his prince at the challenging tone. "Really, Éomer? When did you last see the king?"

Éomer blinked in the dulled light, bucked from his seat of thought by the turn of the conversation. His head was distracted by what his eyes saw on the bed before him, the blood and sickness of his cousin poisoning his thoughts. He strained to take his mind away from Théodred's too-still form, and even then it took him a moment to level his mind with the healer's… "We rode out on the council's instruction six weeks ago…" A shadow crossed his eyes as his attention turned to his uncle. And there was another worry … King Théoden, a man of such shrewd intelligence, so rapidly slipping away into a vague old man, bereft of the power to make his own decisions without guidance from his advisors…

He shook his head slowly to himself. "I have not seen the king for six weeks or more."

"Do you know when _I _was last permitted to-"

The pathetic whine of a floorboard in the corridor, and Birshen stilled. He eyed the door with sharp attentiveness, a fox fearing itself caught amongst the hens. Éomer's brow furrowed at the uncharacteristic display of open fear in his friend, and before Birshen could stop him, he marched for the door and openly looked for eavesdroppers. But there was no-one that he could see in the dim hallway, and he shook his head as he returned to his friend's side.

Birshen did not bother to conceal his relief, his shoulders surrendering just a touch of their rigidity. However, when Birshen continued his report to his former commander, his voice dropped for his friend only, wary and on edge. "I have not seen the king for as long as you." His eyes flitted to the door again. "Not for wont of trying: I hear word that the king's mind is slipping, and I cannot get close enough to see the colour of the clothes he wears."

Éomer's countenance paled behind his curtain of dripping hair. "You are Healer in Chief," he whispered back, rising anger colouring his voice. "You are under oath to tend the king!"

"Oaths can be rewritten," Birshen supplied darkly.

"None but the king may change the written laws of these lands-!"

A door banged open to an argument down the corridor, fracturing their conversation:

"-_not to go down there!_" An aggressive male voice, one Birshen did not recognise. This was something else that was happening: new and strange men, prowling the hallways like starved hunting cats.

"You will take your hand _off me!_" There was no hysteria in the responding woman's voice, only hissed threat. Birshen could only assume that her demand was met, as quick footfalls resounded, coming closer and closer -

"You will do as my lord bids-"

"Tell your _lord_ I am not his concern!"

Molten sun-gold flowed around the snow of her face and tumbled down tense shoulders, unchecked and free as the wildest river. Spun sprays flew with her flight, mirroring the fire of her anger as they netted the dark glow of a sconce somewhere out of sight. Fury painted colour high on her white cheeks, her eyes flashing with the sharpness of whetted blades.

Éowyn was still as much the fire spirit Birshen had known as a boy, and that was as much her beauty as her curse.

As soon as her foot crossed the threshold of the healing chamber, she quietened. Her eyes were no less harassed, but she set aside her anger immediately and approached her cousin's side with measured grace, each footfall soundless and even. Birshen could only marvel at how completely controlled she was. Here was his level-headed maid.

Éomer and Birshen could be shades on the wall for all the attention she gave them as she looked into Théodred's muddied face. Her fingers stroked a thick strand of fever-soaked hair from his forehead with a tenderness that belied the wild rage they had seen in her mere moments ago.

"Théodred?"

His head turned at the soft venture of her voice. A minute response, really, but more than anyone else had succeeded in pulling from him. Hurt flashed over Éowyn's countenance, peaking in the slight tremble to her lips. She took a breath and steadied herself, regaining her composure and straightening her back…

Before either of them could think to stop her, a long hand moved the cleansing cloth lying forgotten over Théodred's mutilated side. Éowyn blanched at what she saw, closing her eyes momentarily and fighting to maintain the thin net of grace holding her together. For all her foolishness, she was sharp … Birshen did not need to tell her that her cousin was going to die. Another steadying breath, and she quashed any overwhelming emotion that would have taken a weaker woman, and crouched at Théodred's side, silently smoothing his damp forehead in an attempt to offer him some comfort, no matter how paltry it was in the end.

"_GET BACK HERE!_"

Éowyn's interaction with Théodred had somehow eradicated the means of her arrival from Birshen's memory. When he looked up, it surprised him to see the thin figure of a man framed in the doorway, his lank, thin hair blowing about his face as he huffed. He was tall, this intruder, dark-clothed and with a storming face that reflected a cruel spirit.

"You have no leave to be here," Birshen growled. "Get out."

The only response he received was the despising glare flung at him from beneath that dirty curtain. Contemptuous knowledge was in that look, an expression that labelled him a weakling and dismissed him as a threat. The man strode purposefully across the room, his hand a breath for Éowyn's hair –

"_You_ will do as _I_ say,_ whore-!_"

Éomer cut the distance like a loosed hound, stealth switched for speed. Birshen had never noticed him leave his side and conceal himself in the shadows by the doorway. Clearly, where Birshen's attention had lapsed, Éomer's had taken up the slack. Those hands, so itching for something to do, had found an occupation in grabbing his sister's stalker by the throat and slamming him into the wall, so hard the wind bucked from his chest in a breathy choke.

"Like bullying women, do you?" Éomer hissed into his face, teeth bared like a wolf primed to rip his throat out. "By whose authority do you harass my sister?" The fury in the Third Marshall's voice was enough to have the man transfixed in his terror, suddenly timid and meek in the hold of someone so clearly able to do him harm.

"Éomer, drop him!" Éowyn was at her brother's side, her jaw set in anger. "_Drop him!_"

"Quiet, Éowyn!" His grip tightened. "_Speak!_"

"It might help if you let him breathe," Birshen supplied, unable to hide his amusement. "Just a little."

Éomer threw him a filthy look, but heeded his advice, releasing the man just enough to allow him to draw breath. It was little more than a gesture, however, his hand remaining firmly in place and primed to crush the miserable cur's life from him.

But the man – a character Éomer had never seen before, who harassed his sister like it was his born right – dared throw him a loathsome sneer. And it was there, in that glare of hate, that Éomer's understanding of Birshen's words clearly took hold. A cold _something_ snapped in his eyes, a look Birshen had seen come over them only once in their long history. It was no more than a glint, swallowed by his anger before the rat in his hold knew what he had witnessed. But Birshen knew: it was panicked realisation of lost control, and in the very worst place it could occur. The Third Marshall saw that his family's seat of power was toppled, and he was too late to do anything.

"I am not answerable to you," his captive snarled, disdain prickled with a coward's fear. "You – you are no master in this house, no- not anymore-"

"Really?" Éomer twisted his fingers in the contours of flesh, finding the pressure points and wringing an grotesque and guttural gargle from his prisoner-

"Éomer, you're making it worse!"

The Third Marshall paid no mind to his sister, even as her fingers tried to prise his hand from his captive's throat, her nails catching his skin and raking rivulets of blood. The look Éomer gave him was ugly with promise. "Right now, I am the last _master_ you will ever know, and I am losing my patience. _You_-" he slammed the man back into the wall in emphasis "-will tell me what I ask: _to whom do you answer?_"

Purple bloomed across the man's cheeks, his eyes bulging and red. Finally, he tried to choke out an answer: "Grí-" A splutter and desperate gasp – "_Gríma_."

The hand that had been so busy trying to rearrange the throat in its grasp suddenly let go. Éomer's new informant crumpled into a mess of limbs and choking fits at his feet. He was done with the thing on the floor now, taking himself back like he stood near diseased carrion. Each breath the horseman took was drawn in deep and steadying, preparing…

A stone of dread dropped in Birshen's gut when his former commander – his friend – turned his dark eyes on him. Their conveyed message of his intentions was clear enough for Birshen to read ... clear enough to set a hot iron of fear in his mind.

Birshen shook his head, numb and panicked. "Éomer … don't."

But Éomer only offered him a shallow smile, a warrior's resolve banishing any sway his childhood friend might have over him. "Take care of her for me."

Without so much as a glance at his sister, the Third Marshall of the Riddermark reclaimed the orcish helm he had brought in with him and left the room, determination in his step as he went to fight what Birshen feared would be his last battle.

-(())-

Aragorn moved through the camp with all the cat-like stealth of one of his brothers. As an elf could pass through the thickest leaf litter without a sound, so could he, and he employed his learned skill with an aptitude that would almost pass as elven in the eyes of one of the Eldar. The first whispering touch of daylight stroked the high boughs of the trees, but did not yet confidently reach into the scoop of land their camp was nestled in. It breathed amber and gold through the mist that shrouded the trees, great shafts of light that were really quite beautiful … but Aragorn could not find it in himself to appreciate the quiet majesty of the morning.

The sleep he had managed to snatch had been fitful, filled with dreams that were not his own and coloured with an underlying fear he could not shake. At some point in the night, he had been forced to lay Legolas back down at the bole of the tree in guarded respect of the alarming elevation of his temperature. Aragorn had not settled to sleep again after that, taking a seat on Gimli's log and watching his friend wrestle through dreams and fever in the fading firelight.

A careful stoke, and the embers of the camp fire roused themselves groggily. Busying himself with rekindling the fire was a good distraction, and Aragorn took his time bringing it back to serviceable life. He had designs on brewing a fever tea with the hope that it might cool Legolas to a more acceptable temperature. Aragorn did not concern himself with how woefully low his supplies were getting. He utterly despised how helpless he felt, how helpless he _knew _he was: Legolas needed the medicines and skills of his own kind, and he needed shelter … three things Aragorn was unable to offer him.

Something changed. Aragorn paused in his ministrations to the fire, listening to the sudden stillness…

"So you've finally decided to wake," he called behind him as way of greeting

Silence met his greeting initially, before: "How'd y'know I'm awake?"

Despite the weight in his chest, Aragorn grinned. "By deducing that the forest no longer shaking under my feet either meant I was dead, or you were awake. One of the two."

The dwarf swore and spluttered indignantly at him as he fought to sit upright, scrubbing at his face and beard with both hands and blearily taking in his surroundings. A stretch that resulted in some joint or other rending the still air with a loud _crack_, followed by more swearing, and Gimli seemed more himself. Beetling eyes, quick despite the heavy shroud of sleep the dwarf tried to shake off, settled unerringly on the still-sleeping archer. Aragorn knew his attention lingered on their friend, but he could not stand to follow Gimli's suit, occupying himself again with the fire. Stillness in Legolas was not something new to him: it was the elvish way, and Legolas seemed able to embody the live motion of the trees, utterly unmoving save for the gentle push of the wind through his hair, stirring it in the same way it might stroke long grass. But _this_, this was an unnatural stillness. Legolas was trapped, a wild bird encaged, and he could not stomach it.

The dwarf was apparently oblivious to his mannish companion's thinly veiled distress. He stretched again and slumped gracelessly on his seat, poking absently at his teeth with the tip of his tongue. "He moved?"

"Moved? He has barely breathed." The ranger shook his head to himself, occupying his mind with mixing a small dose of calamint into a tin and setting it to steep at the fire's edge. Sluggish as the fire was, it would take some time for the water to heat and the dried herb to release its full potential. That was fine … there were other matters they must attend to. The ranger rose to his feet, turning his eyes behind their camp…

"So," began the dwarf with a conversational air that blanketed the concern in his eyes, as he proceeded with stuffing his pipe. "Am I correct in assuming that the dark hours of the night told you what in the name of Arda we are meant to do?" The look Aragorn was given over the pipe was frank and knowing, a look that told him his lack of sleep had not gone unnoticed and daring him to attempt denial.

It should not have surprised Aragorn that Gimli was so astute. Mind, he imagined that the pull of tiredness he could feel under his eyes was so visible he could have had weights attached to his skin. The mood that possessed the ranger had no energy to argue, and met the shrewd and clever stare of his counterpart with little apology. "We have to go. This morning."

A gloved hand extended for a slow-glowing brand at the edge of the fire. But as soon as he picked it up, Gimli caught sight of the meaningful stare his companion was giving him. When he frowned in askance, Aragorn merely inclined his head in Legolas' direction, an apologetic smile angling his rough beard. Gimli rolled his eyes and tapped the weed back into its pouch. Of course. How could he forget?

"Can he be moved yet?"

Aragorn shook his head, reluctant to voice the answer to a question he had fought with himself over for almost the entire night. "No. But he cannot stay here either, and I will not abandon the hobbits…" There was something else that had plagued him through the night: the chances of catching up with the Uruk-hai, after this period of time and on-foot, were desperately slim. Carrying someone in such a critical condition as Legolas heightened the danger to him, and virtually severed the likelihood of getting the hobbits back. But staying and doing nothing was not an option.

"I'll get Legolas to take the tea, and I'll get him ready," Aragorn stated, more in affirmation to himself than to Gimli. "We'll carry him between us, that's going to be the best way." They had to keep him as level as possible. If Aragorn carried at the front, he could better control their speed for Legolas' sake, and track the passage of the hated beasts that had robbed them of so much…

Gimli peaked his brows and took a breath. "If that's the way you'd like to play it…"

"You don't agree?"

"I can't see success at the end of it," Gimli put across frankly, giving Aragorn an honest and level stare. "We've lost too much already: where there were nine, there are three – well, really _two_. And I don't want you to think that we have every chance of getting them back … but neither can I offer you another way round." He sighed, a great depressed huff of air that fogged briefly before his face and was gone. "We've about as many options as a stuck pig."

The sunlight knifing through the trees finally lighted on their camp. The silvered flanks of the beech trees became embellished with bright light and given the deceptive glow of soft heat. It caught on axe and sword alike as they lay together and accented their readiness for battle, glimmering sharp threat at the retreating darkness. Beside them, it bestowed its wealth of gold across the face of the sleeping archer, a gift of light that called to him to welcome the new day. It painted a lie of health across his face, dying the pallor of his skin to something rich and full. But the brilliant gleam of daylight failed to rouse him. There had never been a day that Legolas had missed the rising of the sun…

Aragorn forced himself to look away, heartsick and so impossiblytired. "We have a companion we must bid farewell."

Sadness waved over Gimli's strong gaze. "Aye, we do that." They both surreptitiously threw their attention over to the right of the camp, to where they knew a fallen warrior rested under a shroud of gossamer mist. Events had not been kind over the past evening, and thoughts of Boromir – through no fault of their own – had been harried to the backs of their minds. Now that he was at the fore, the two friends jointly felt the sharp lash of shame: he had not been tended, not prepared for burial. They had not even thought of how they were to bury him, not until the lonely hours of the night when Aragorn had found himself thinking of little else.

As one, Aragorn and Gimli moved over to where Boromir lay, Aragorn with water and Gimli with one of the few cloths they could spare. Wordlessly they set about tending their fallen friend, preparing him for his final journey.

"It's strange," the dwarf remarked as he wiped flecks of dirt from Boromir's countenance. "Looking at him now … there's not a mark on him. I never noticed yesterday, but he looks … fine." Gimli paused in speech and in action, as though he debated with himself that Boromir really was dead. "Do you see what I mean?"

Aragorn did see what he meant, though he did not confirm it for Gimli's ears. His healer's mind told him that was how men whom had been dealt such a killing blow looked: near pristine, rarely with so much as a flicker of pain on their faces. That was the skill behind such a strike as had felled Boromir: quick to afflict, very fast to kill. It agonised him no end that one so mighty had had to be felled in such a way…

"I never thought orcs could kill so cleanly."

Surprise rocked the ranger where he crouched. Stunned, his eyes fixed on Gimli. The dwarf was unaware that he was being watched, his own attention consumed by examining the entry wound just below the arch of Boromir's chest. _He does not know. _It had been Aragorn's assumption that Gimli knew Legolas had been the one to kill Boromir. Never had it crossed his mind to discuss it with him … now he thought on it, it now struck him that Gimli had not challenged Legolas' merit to slay their companion before.

"It's just so _neat_," the dwarf continued, oblivious to the fact that Aragorn had stilled. His finger gently pulled at the clean edges of the punctured leather. As though in a daze, he pulled his hand back, a frown warping his brow… "Did Legolas do this?"

The question was sharp, hedged with mixed disbelief and dismay. The glass-brittle edge to his eyes, the slight gape of his lips, said he already knew the answer.

"Yes."

Gimli sat back on his haunches but stayed over the body of their fallen companion, guarding almost. The look Aragorn was pinned with was spearing, accusing. "You _knew?_"

Aragorn returned Gimli's stare levelly. "I ordered it."

"What do you mean, you _ordered it?_" Upset was mounting in Gimli's voice, his head clearly flying with all manner of confused theories of betrayal and murder. Anger raised his voice. "You _ordered it?_"

"Do you remember nearly a week ago when we rested by the river?" Aragorn queried quietly, keeping his voice as level and calm as he could to counter Gimli's heightening fury. "When I left to hunt and lost the meat?"

The question threw Gimli's anger. He frowned, struggling to remember the incident over the events of the past few days. It seemed like an age to Aragorn since that night, so much had happened between, and he could not fault Gimli for straining to recall. "Aye," he ceded eventually, suspicion in his slow confirmation. "They had a spat. What of it?"

"That was the beginning of the end." It was funny, but it had not crossed Aragorn's mind until that moment that that was exactly what it had been. An incident that at the time had been pinned on warriors of such contrasting ilk being forced together for too long showed itself in a different light altogether. In the _correct_ light… "They fought because the Ring took Boromir from us that night. I did not see it at the time, but Legolas did." He paused, his memories of the private conversation between Legolas and himself afterwards coming back to him, sharp as the cold surrounding them. "We both saw the potential threat Boromir posed to the quest, and I ordered Legolas to do what was necessary to protect it." He shook his head to himself, saddened and deflated. "I see now that he was always set to betray us-"

But Gimli's head shook in denial, a heavy hand landing on Boromir's shoulder and staying there, firm and defensive. "No. No, this was a _good man_. I _refuse_ to believe that his heart was against us!"

Aragorn moved to counter Gimli's argument, but the dwarf cut him off: "You cannot tell me that he was never ours! I don't believe it! I _won't_ believe it! And for you to _sit there _by his corpse and tell me you _knew _he would betray us, that you _commanded_ the _elf_ to-"

"_Gimli!_" Aragorn barked, the mark of his own upset turning his voice sharp. "Will you just _listen_ to me?" He needed Gimli to see, he needed him on side, and he certainly did not want him to turn on Legolas for something he had been forced to do. "Neither of us wanted this. Legolas would sooner die himself than kill a comrade, as would I… But Boromir must have presented a real threat to Frodo and the Ring for Legolas to have acted as he did. Do you not see?"

It was clear in the dark set of Gimli's eyes that he did not align with Aragorn's way of thinking. The ranger pulled an aggravated hand through his hair and sighed heavily. "Look at the state of Legolas, Gimli. Think about last night-" the dwarf gave a visible shudder at the memory, Aragorn fighting his own body hard to not mirror the action himself. "Do you honestly think he would have actively sought to take on someone as strong as Boromir in his condition?"

Somewhere beneath the hurt and the anger, some part of Gimli heard Aragorn's reasoning, the blackness in his stare losing its intensity.

"This was desperation, Gimli," he pressed, driving home what his friend fought to accept. "Please, my friend. See it for what it is. This was the Ring's doing: not Legolas', not Boromir's." He reached a hand for Gimli's shoulder, and was silently relieved when he did not shy from his touch. "Please say you understand."

There was no immediate answer. Gimli's eyes drifted back to the body before him, surveying the cold face with new sight. "This should never have had to happen." He sighed as he slumped sadly, the forgotten damp cloth creating a dark patch on his leg. When his eyes returned to Aragorn's, there was an almost frightening ferocity kindling in their dark depths. For a moment Aragorn though the douty warrior was going to turn on him, they were so intense. But: "We make them pay," he commanded vehemently. "We make them pay. Not just for them, but for everything. For everyone."

The hand on Gimli's shoulder gripped briefly, an affirmation that their sentiments were joined. By the Valar, Aragorn would go to the ends of the world to ensure Gimli's desire was met. There was nothing he wished for more, and there were few he could honestly say he wanted more at his side. He would gladly pass up the offering of an entire host if it meant he could have his indomitable friend. "For everyone. Together."

A hand landed on his own shoulder, heavy as a hammer and with twice the strength. The smile that dominated Gimli's countenance was driven by an ire the like of which Aragorn had never witnessed in him, an expression oddly frightening and dark. "'Til Arda burns and our bones are dust, we are Fellowship," he declared, his oath typically dwarven. He paused, considering. "Even the Elf."

Aragorn's breath bucked with a chuckle. "Even the Elf."

Gravity took them again as they resumed their task … but the air between them was not marred with unspoken truths and barriers of understanding. They worked in complete silence, and it did not take them long to have Boromir ready for his final journey into his homeland and beyond.

Having not the time or tools to bury him properly, their choices were cut down to the boats Frodo and Sam had discovered the day before. Dubbing them 'barely serviceable' was possibly too generous, but the one boat remaining to them that was not crippled by the brutal hand of age was all they had to offer their fallen friend. Clods of silt and decayed leaves were shovelled out as best as they were able. Not for the first time, Aragorn lamented the loss of the elven boats … not just for their perfect reliability, but for the craftsmanship that made them so strikingly beautiful. It almost felt like a slight to be laying a man of Boromir's standing to rest in such an ordinary vessel. A bed of pliable young branches covered the bottom of the boat and made it even, that Boromir could lie straight and proud on his final journey, as he had been in life.

When it was as ready as they could make it, man and dwarf carried him to the river shore together in silence, baring the load of not just his weight, but his death, together. They placed him on the mattress of branches with as much care as if he were merely sleeping, the Horn of Gondor placed carefully under his folded hands over his bloodied chest.

The boat bit deep and grating into the shingle, carving the memory of Boromir's passing into the shoreline. The water skipped about the prow at first, touching the hull and seeming to decide on its worthiness. Aragorn and Gimli followed the boat into the river, their boots filling with sharp cold and the water coming up their legs before it finally decided to accept their charge from them, taking the responsibility of carrying Boromir into his homeland with a gentle lift.

Aragorn did not move from the water as he watched the boat drift with an almost lazy steadiness from them. It reached a point out in the water where it caught at the edge of the current and spun slowly, as a curled leaf might. As it was coming out of the first full turn, the boat threw a quick buck, and the action was enough to push it into the faster channel of water heading for the falls, and it was not long before their last view of their friend was swallowed by the mist shrouding the water.

Somewhere in the treeline at their backs, a robin threatened the new morning brightly, a perfect thrill of sound that became thin in the open air. The mist hanging in such a great still swath over the expanse of water netted the young sunlight, like the golden dust of batted summer grasses suspended seemingly forever.

"This is a beautiful place."

Gimli made a rough sound in the back of his throat, a noise course and stark against the stunning majesty of their surroundings. "It is that. And I _never_ want to see it again." Gimli turned his back on the Anduin, done with a place he knew his foulest dreams would force him to walk. "Come on, Aragorn," he beseeched of his tall friend. "Let's go."

Neither said a word as they waded from the water, set to return to the side of their other companion, hearts heavy with the thought that this might not be the only time they would have to say farewell to a friend all too prominent in their minds.

-(())-

They were watching her, unblinking, unashamed. Staring from the alcoves, hanging in the shadows like great spiders. The touch of their eyes made her skin crawl as she passed them, each footfall a lie of calm. She would not run, or show the panic beneath her calm exterior. Not in front of Gríma's snivelling dogs.

None of them were brazen enough to approach her. There was too much fear of the men closest to her for them to dare. But it was there in their eyes, that knowledge that said they knew just how alone she was soon to be, those steadfast pillars she built her life around crumbling to dust and leaving her bare.

Between Éomer and Théodred, it was before Éomer that these cockroach-like men scattered. He was the true strength of the family, the one who offered no quarter to those careless enough to cross him. Éomer was strong, and brave, a master horseman and a leader with the same high qualities of their proud ancestry. But in the few weeks he had been away, worms had eaten so deeply into the structure of the Meduseld, he had no idea how precariously the shift of power teetered. If he fell, if they won, the kingdom was lost.

A voice reached through the endless corridor to her, a voice pitched livid and demanding. And against Éomer's anger, a poisoned honey tone, meeting fury with calm…

Éowyn's heart-rate quickened, her chest tight with the need to fly and her stomach sick with the knowledge that she could do no such thing.

A coward's yelp and hard thud, and her feet were running now, mindless of the eyes -

The corridor opened out to the throne room. Across the impossible width of the chamber, her eyes found her brother hanging in the arms of Gríma's guards, the king's manipulator leering over him like a puppet master. The king himself was swallowed in the same stale furs he had been in for weeks, those same blank eyes staring unseeingly at the flags as her brother was beaten. Her beloved, _stupid _brother -

"_Éo-!"_

A hand locked over her mouth and a trapping arm around her waist-

Éowyn's heart almost gave out. Her head reared against the control, but she was held against her captor's shoulder, pinned tight to him. And above the frantic clamour of her heart, she could hear Éomer's struggles against his own set of foes, dragging him, hitting him –

Éowyn redoubled her efforts, thrashing madly and even hauling her feet in the air to make him take her entire weight off balance. She kicked hard at his legs and was satisfied to hear a pained grunt … but she did not expect the voice in her ear, heavy and straining through her fight: "_Éowyn-! Still yourself!_"

Without her full consent, her body stopped resisting, going limp with surprise. At her sudden calm, the hands that held her so tightly relinquished the intensity of their hold, the one at her mouth dropping away and holding the top of her arm. In shock, Éowyn turned to see Birshen over her shoulder, his pale green eyes strangely apologetic and saddened. His jaw was tight under his short red beard, his breath coming quick and controlled through his nose. There had been no tell-tale _clip_ of the stick he used these days, and she realised he had come after her without it, a fine mist of sweat across his brow telling her it had hurt him to do so…

Éowyn did not care.

"_Help him_," she implored, horrified that Birshen was with her and not rushing to the aid of his former captain and childhood friend. Éowyn's eyes searched the healer's, trying to find an ally in him … but when he shook his head at her and looked away, dismay was the only thing she gained from him.

Fight snapped back into her limbs, merciless of his pain.

"_Let me go-!_"

Birshen's hold on her became rock, and she knew the bruising would be vivid. Desperation turned her body into a thing numbed against pain. But above her struggles and cries for release, she heard the words that destroyed her world, the words that allowed tears to fall unchecked and grief to find the weakness in her cold armour. Her body bowed with pain in Birshen's grip, and she found herself no longer held in restraint, but cradled to his chest…

"_You are banished forthwith from the Kingdom of Rohan and all its domains under pain of death._"


	20. Chapter Twenty: Watches of the Night

Okay: firstly, sorry. This has been a _very _long time in coming, and an even longer time in the making.

Kind of as a sorry, I've made it uber long. There's 64 pages of this bad boy. Future posts will be shorter to decrease time between posts, because nine months is plain ridiculous. I now only have one job, and am not working every day (hooray), which means I have time to write. Shorter posts, all the same.

Thank you to those of you who have sent the messages pleading with me to not abandon this story. I will never abandon it: it's my brain baby. And a triple thank you to those wonderful few who have taken the time to give me a word of your thoughts. Love it, hate it, I don't mind – I just want to know! Please take a minute to drop me a line … it has taken me nine months to write this, after all!

Finally, this chapter is for two people: for Mandy, because she has been poorly. For Meredith, simply because she is awesome. For both of them, for their constant badgering! Now that this is up, I can catch up on both of your stories guilt-free!

Chapter Twenty: Watches of the Night

She was like a thing broken as he led her down to her bower. Her back was straight, her eyes forward, and she had shaken his support from her arm long ago. She neither spoke nor returned his edged glances, and their journey through the darkening corridors was lonely and long. Outwardly, Éowyn was the fierce Lady of Rohan the people knew her as. Outwardly. Birshen hated the fracturing he could see deep in her eyes.

They reached the door, and stopped. The deepening shadows slipped over them with a breath of chill. Éowyn shivered, but made no move to go inside. Birshen hesitated, throwing her an uncertain glance and, reaching carefully around her, opened the door.

Éowyn's rooms were north-facing, just as the healing rooms were, and the shades of night had taken hold here long before they had the rest of the house. A banked fire glowed somewhere deep within, painting the blank faces of the furniture with a dark glow. There was nothing welcoming about the place at all in the absence of light, not even a maid awaiting the return of her lady, and Birshen did not want her to go to such coldness, not after what had happened.

"I'll find a sconce…" His voice shied from her silence like a whipped dog from its master. Finding words to offer her seemed so impossible … everything was suddenly so trivial, so meaningless, and it felt an insult to speak of other things…

"I don't need a sconce." Éowyn's words were quiet, hard. "I needed you to help my brother." The quiet melody of her speech bucked with pain, her eyes never leaving the neat grain of oak wood before her. The sun gold river shimmered with the shake of her head, convicting. "I want nothing from you. Ever again."

"Éowyn-"

Finally, she looked to him. The sharpest blade could not have cut him as deeply as her eyes, eyes he had always known to show kindness and love. No more. "I thought they'd crippled your leg, not your courage."

Something in Birshen's chest slipped. And it _hurt._

The door was shut and she was gone, and Birshen was alone, the print of her condemnation burying itself deeper into his mind. _Coward._

His head too numbed with shock, Birshen's feet seemed to take the decision to get him back to his own chambers. The healer bit back a groan as the pain in his stressed leg woke him from his stupor, resenting his new movement and punishing him fervently for it. It did not matter if the silent walls bore witness to his weakness. Birshen hedged his way through the stillness towards the healing quarters, leaning heavily on the blank panels and moving pitifully slowly away from where the words scorched the dusted air.

_Coward._

-(())-

"We have to stop. The light is waning too quickly."

It was. Even out here, in the open places of the world, daylight was still only too happy to abandon them to the blinding dark. Gimli could not have said that he resented Aragorn's decision: his arms felt that they were stretched to at least over a foot their normal length, and his chin had itched for at least the past league. With two hands occupied with holding the makeshift cloak litter, trying to scratch on his chest had not only been ineffective, but maddening.

"Rea-_ea_lly?" His response was pounded from him when his foot plunged into an unseen hole. Gimli could not say how many times _that_ had happened through the day. "There's a shame." Finding the hobbits was as much a priority to him, but desperation and exhaustion were no longer balanced, and the pain in his shoulders was making him genuinely doubt that he could fight for them if – by some grace of the Valar – they ever managed to catch up.

A little reprieve, even if it was only for an hour, would be more than welcome.

Yet despite the ranger's words and promise of rest, he failed to stop, his head still bowed as it had been for the entire day, the rise and fall of the land mapped clearly to Gimli in the role of his shoulders. The dwarf watched the thick thatch of dark hair before him, crowned with the glancing gold of the last light.

Exchanges between them had been limited by Aragorn's need to concentrate on the fading trail, his head bent as he read the land with the unparalleled skill of a ranger of the North. Carrying Legolas between them checked their speed, and to make tracking all the harder, it had rained heavily on them at about midday, when the trees had opened and completely abandoned them to the nakedness of the immense grass plains of Rohan. It was only a brief deluge, but it was intense enough to pummel the grass and mute the Uruk's passage to even Aragorn's skilled eyes … all the land looked the same to Gimli, and he could not even begin to understand how Aragorn could distinguish between a blade of grass flattened by a foot or water.

There was nothing around them save winter-burned grass and the most incredible expanse of sky Gimli had ever seen. It seemed a ridiculous thing to observe, but he had never thought the sky to be so imposingly _massive_. Great columns of cloud conquered the helpless blue, climbing high like the smoke pillars of merciless marauders, aided by the wind that forced the tussocks of pale grass to bow in subservient respect. The same wind cut and chafed at his exposed cheeks and found its way unerringly through every parting in his clothing. There was nothing out here to challenge its passage, no trees, no mounds, and it galloped and gambolled with all the unchecked freedom of the legendary horses of Rohan themselves.

It was hauntingly beautiful, if such a desolate place could be described as such … but for travellers – particularly those more in need of shelter than others – it was wholly unforgiving, and Gimli sighted an uncomfortable and cold night ahead of them.

If they ever stopped.

"_Aragorn!_"

Gimli felt only a shot of guilt when those rolling shoulders jerked with surprise at his bark. Finally, _finally_, the ranger's feet came to a halt, his eyes caught with a kind of dazed confusion as he looked over his shoulder to see what his companion wanted. Gentler, Gimli prompted: "There's no more light for this. You said so yourself."

Aragorn blinked, as though remembering his own words was almost too high an ask. "Even if it is only a handful of miles, we must keep going." His tone hung with the same heart-deep weariness that pulled on his posture and weighed his feet. "They've gained too much on us already."

_They've an entire day on us. As if a few miles will get us any closer. _"And lose the trail in the dark, because you are too tired to see?" Fatigue against stubbornness: this was a battle Gimli knew he could win, and it would take little more than a hard push of will. Aragorn's fort was crumbling, and that could not be allowed to happen: he needed the rest he so ardently denied. His skills as a tracker were beyond anything Gimli had ever encountered, picking out detailed stories from the land where Gimli saw only grass. If he missed something because he pushed himself too far, the implications were too awful to consider.

Aragorn gave no response, but neither did he move. It was all Gimli needed. Taking advantage of the ranger's pause, he announced: "Well, here looks as good a spot as any," and without further hesitation, he moved a little to the left, where the tufts of grass were more level, and lowered his end of Legolas' cloak litter to the ground. Forced to follow suit for Legolas' sake, Aragorn mirrored his action, but not without a well-aimed glare – which Gimli took as a token of triumph on his part.

Despite his reluctance to stop, Aragorn set a rudimentary camp immediately, his hands in his pack and setting his medicines in the grass. Only when he was ready did he turn his attention to Legolas. He called softly to him, cupping his face and tapping his cheek, uttering something in Sindarin that Gimli could not even pretend to understand. It did not surprise the dwarf that the elf gave no reaction, but Aragorn's disappointment was clear in the sagging of the corners of his mouth, his eyes weary and utterly unhappy.

"I thought you wanted him to sleep?"

"Not like this. This is too deep."

"So he needs it," Gimli shrugged, trying to throw Aragorn's concern. "Hard to blame him, with what he's been through." Truth be told, he was as worried as the lad was, but worry was a breeding ground for despair, and Aragorn falling to such a dangerous emotion would cripple their chances of finding the hobbits, and like as not destroy Legolas' chance of survival completely. All Gimli could do was work to dispel the threat. "Hardly surprising, is it?"

Aragorn shook his head to himself as he retrieved his flask from his pack. "I should never have given him the poppy." Before breaking camp that morning, he had emptied his own water reserve into the leaf litter and replaced it with what was left of the fever tea he had brewed. From what Gimli had seen, taking the tea had made little difference to the fever that made the archer's brow shimmer in the dying light, but Aragorn still fed it to him all the same throughout the day. As he did it now, Legolas' head carefully angled for little offerings of liquid to slip down his throat, Gimli watched not Legolas, but Aragorn.

"This isn't your fault, lad, none of it. You can't blame yourself."

"Can't I?" Silver met earth brimming with self-condemnation, etching out Aragorn's conviction in unblinking surety. The strength of feeling was so solid, Gimli felt – not for the first time in his relationship with the man – that he stared into the eyes of an ancient. He looked so distinctly elven, it was like sharing one of Legolas' harder stares, the ones that could sear even the roughest warrior into meekness and subservience. It was difficult to maintain the contact without turning away … it made him feel so _small_, so _childish_. Before Gimli's resolve could buckle, those powerful eyes finally removed themselves and turned their attention back to Legolas, and Gimli could not deny his sense of relief.

Gimli's offer of help was quietly refused as Aragorn raised Legolas' body against his chest, and so he was reduced to watching as Aragorn continued to tease small amounts of tea down the elf's throat. He could understand Aragorn's concern: other than the awful tremors that wracked his body from time to time even in sleep, Legolas had neither moved nor woken since the night before. The complete unresponsiveness was more than a little worrying, and Aragorn had stated earlier that, where he would normally have decided to administer another dose of poppy, he deemed it too dangerous with Legolas remaining unconscious. What Gimli found strange, however, was when Aragorn had announced, not long after the trees gave way to grass, that Legolas dreamed. It had not been vocalised as a fanciful thought, but as a statement, sure as the sun rises and falls, and Gimli did not understand how Aragorn could possibly know such a thing.

The silence between man and dwarf, coupled with the man's turned attention, prompted Gimli's thoughts to pull away from the scene playing before his eyes. His mind wandered to the true enormity of their situation. If, by some incredible miracle, they managed to catch up with the filthy swine innards who had stolen their friends, how on earth were they meant to fight them? They would be two, facing a squad of twenty or more with a prize to fight for. If his arms and shoulders were anything to go by, exhaustion would have the potential to get the better of the pair of them. And what of Legolas? Those savages could be riled into bloodlust by the slightest scent of blood, and Legolas wreaked of it. Could they keep the Uruks from him _and _fight for the hobbits? He doubted it. This was more a mission for their own suicides than a rescue attempt.

A difference in movement brought his mind back to their grassy camp. Legolas had been lowered back onto the cloak that had carried him and that would now serve as his bed. The assortment of little pots was back at the elf's side, unplugged and ready. Faint wafts of scent radiated from their clay depths, spicing the wind as it hurried the welcome fragrances away from them. Instead of the easy calm he had first felt when those heady aromas greeted him, the scent pushed him back into a forest not so far away, where he crouched in the leaf litter, vainly trying to offer comfort to one who was far, far beyond its reach. Worst of all, he saw, even as he looked on the elf's unconscious countenance, those dark blue eyes looking to him for mercy he could not grant. He honestly did not know if he could endure in his own mind if he had to witness the elf go through that again.

By the way Aragorn moved, he did not share Gimli's foreboding: his actions were precise and measured, as Gimli had come to associate with the practiced healer in him. At his friend's quiet request, Gimli moved to Legolas' head, tasked with carefully raising him enough for Aragorn to access the web of bandaging hiding the elf's wound from the world.

But despite his steady healers' hands, the noise of dismay Aragorn made at the dark staining of the otherwise crisp white linen was as much friend as healer. At its removal, it became immediately apparent that the bandaging was not just stained, but sodden, colouring the sharp air with the heavy odour of blood and banishing any hint of sweet herb.

"Ai, Legolas…" Aragorn shook his head as he checked the blood-soaked poultice he had placed over the wound the night before. "I think this outweighs any hurt of mine you have ever been forced to nurse, don't you?"

He paused, looking to the archer's face in expectance of a response. Gimli looked down himself at the golden head resting against his leg, at the closed eyes that should be rolling and unremorseful. Instead there was only stillness, the Legolas they knew locked away somewhere without the strength to return to them.

Eventually, Aragorn turned his eyes to the task of cleaning the new blood from Legolas' flank. He said nothing more as he carried out his chore, nor did he speak when he bound Legolas' torso with fresh bandages. Gimli made no comment himself … he did not think there was anything he could say that could change the sharp brightness of grief in Aragorn's eyes.

-(())-

He was used to seeing her in the dead of night, in the silent hours when the wolves of her dreams prowled the shadows surrounding her bed, when he joined them himself, knowing the floorboards that would betray him and those that conspired with him. Times when he was close enough to hear the whisper of her breath, to see the peach-soft down on her cheek in the half-light, when her awareness was blind to him and her face held the clear innocence of one unknowing of another's attentions.

This was no such time.

Tonight, he had been careless. He had been so drunk with the power of his own success that he had allowed his caution to wander, and come the moment he realised the footsteps were not only destined for the chambers he trespassed, but were _her _footsteps, and worse with the healer, it was too late to bolt. Panic backed him into the relative safety of the shadows, too aware of their ability to shift allegiance should light come to the room…

Fate, as it would have it, was on his side: she refused a sconce from the healer, and his heart was able to calm, just a fraction. His night sight was better than most could claim: so many years dwelling in the shadows, making a concerted effort to remain hidden from those who sought to hurt him, had given him what he regarded as a great talent. He could pluck his way through a darkened room with no effort at all. He could see the details of a letter on a darkened desk without a shade of strain.

From where he hid, just behind the heavy drapes of her bed, his view of the door was completely obscured … but, despite the sudden predicament he found himself in, he found himself smiling. Faces he could not see, but words he could definitely hear, and what he heard brought perfection to his work of the day.

The firm shutting of the door, final in its meaning, and quiet. He could hear nothing, and wondered for a moment if she had actually come in. Then, from out in the corridor, the staggered steps of the crippled healer faded into unimportance. And in their absence, an open sob broke the silence, followed by others.

His panic stiffened his back and stilled his breath when she suddenly ran through the bower into her bed chamber. The bed jolted violently, and she was close, so very close, voicing her pain into her pillows, unrestrained by the fear that someone would hear. He doubted any had ever witnessed such strong emotion from the Shield Maiden before, a woman so characteristically distant that even chosen suitors were put off by her coldness. It had not always been so with her: he remembered days when she smiled and laughed freely, radiating joy at merely being alive.

He had never been so close to her when she was awake, but she was so consumed by pain, she could have been completely deaf and blind, and he decided that he would take a chance tonight. The highs of success told him that tonight belonged to him, tonight and all others laid out before him. Even so, as Gríma stepped out from behind his shield of shadows, his hair bristled at the thrill of potential discovery.

Éowyn did not see him, just as he had anticipated, though her position on the bed sent a lance of daring fear through him…

She was facing him, curled on top of the blankets and skins, the pillow clenched in her fists with such strength her hands trembled with the force of her grip. Her hair flowed with wild abandon over the stark white of the pillow, reaching unchecked over her face in a web of gold. But her face … fascination held Gríma there, at risk of being seen by the one he had observed in secret for so many years now. And if she did see him, what then? The Meduseld was his now, after all: his men had permeated the guard with all the efficiency of woodworm in a rotting tree. If she cried out, who would come?

She had not been in such a disposition for years, since the loss of her parents. And now, here she was, crying for a brother lost forever, with no-one but her decrepit uncle and a good as dead cousin left to her…

Now, she was alone.

Soon, she would be his.

Unbidden, Saruman's reaction at his requested reward for treason rang loud against Éowyn's tears: laughter, mocking and sharp … hearing it had been like dragging his hand through nettles. Even now, in the dark, he shrank back from the words that had followed: _"Fine. Have your horse whore: if your price is bedding, you are as cheap as your prize."_

He did not look at her like that. Éowyn fascinated him as no other living thing did. She always had, from the day he first saw her as a child, and he had longed for her from that moment. The knowledge that soon she would belong to him set a thrill in his heart that was difficult to contain.

With another stab of daring, Gríma backed away from Éowyn's bed, back into the friendly folds of the shadows, and to the great chest that sat against the wall. Such an ugly thing, he had always thought: squat and inelegant, a fat toad waiting to be fed. Despite its ugliness, an array of objects scattered across its scarred surface brought a beauty to it that it had no right to know. They were bracelets and rings, brooches and hair ear pieces … a mess of decorations she never wore. He liked to browse this table, finding little adornments to his affection for her, tiny things she would only assume she had lost, their disappearances infrequent enough that she would not suspect. He did not take from her room often … but today was a good day. Today deserved to be celebrated…

There was a hair piece, close to the front of the chest. A plain thing really, thin yet elegant, designed for trapping hair in a practical rather than decorative sense. It was made from a single strip of carven wood, with a slip of gold running across its top giving the only indication of the status of the wearer.

She wore it often, it was a favourite. A thread of hair was still trapped in it…

Gríma's fingers closed over it, her treasure of wood, plucking it from the surface like a ripe berry-

It was quiet.

He had not noticed the moment when Éowyn's sobbing stopped, when the silence revealed the light wood-on-wood scrape of his theft, and his skin tightened with the spike of terror at being discovered. Breath stopped flowing from his lungs, suddenly seeming to solidify in his chest, his heart beating so furiously it felt like it might give out any moment-

_But tonight is yours_. The whisper rippled across his mind with the light brush of a breeze through tall grass. _If she sees you? Does it matter anymore?_

_No. Not anymore…_

Gríma turned, armoured against his fear by his final acceptance of his new reality. Because she was his, and he _wanted _her to see him. If she saw him now, his reward could be his, his claim of her could be completed as he had yearned for so long…

But the hazel eyes he longed to see him were hooded. Éowyn slept, her unhappiness still harnessing her face. Such an image of loveliness…

Time to go.

Gríma let his eyes drink in her beauty for a moment longer before he slipped away, following the net of silent floorboards to the hidden network only he and the mice seemed to know.

-(())-

Another swallow. The brandy burned down his throat, joining the rest to smoulder steadily in his stomach. This was the third glass so far, and he had every intention of it not being the last.

Birshen leaned back in his chair, feeling the hard wood biting into his spine and welcoming the discomfort it brought. One day. It had been just one day, and the whole world had dissolved into a sodden, unsalvageable mess.

Throughout these past months, as he had been forced to watch as the king's mind slipped further and further from reach, Birshen had believed that the real threat the kingdom was under could be kept at bay with Éomer and Théodred holding sentry. Attacks from Orthanc, while common and damaging, where quickly stamped on by the éoreds under the command of the two young captains. Whilst the internal structure of the hierarchy was about as sound as a beam riddled with woodworm, at least the boarders were defended…

Until Éomer was banished, and Théodred put on his deathbed.

And then there was Éowyn…

Birshen washed away a groan with another mouthful at the thought of her. How she hated him … and he could not blame her.

The more honourable side of him half-heartedly admonished his behaviour, shutting himself away in his room with nothing but the bottle of brandy on his desk for company. There was meant to be a cat in here, a slight and clever thing gifted to him as a healing present, but Birshen had no idea where she had gone. Probably as far away as possible from him, sharing Éowyn's disgust. They always did get on too well…

Birshen shook his head, trying to banish the ridiculous thoughts from his mind, and ran his fingers idly through the flame of the candle sitting on the pitted desk he had inherited from the last Healer in Chief. The entire sparse room went with the post, positioned right in the midst of the healing wing, that the resident should be better situated to help any under his care. Someone had told him a time ago he was lucky to have it, that field healers were unheard of to gain such a status. That was true … it was normally a position handed down through the generations, the son learning his art from the father, until time took the father away and the son inherited, his knowledge complete. Only, old Tildan had never fathered any children. The closest he had gotten to training his replacement had actually been Gríma, but when Gríma's interests slipped towards politics, Tildan did not try to gain another apprentice.

Birshen's own training came largely from reading: as a child, his interests had bent more towards the gaining of knowledge than the art of war … but an early display of solid ability on a horse and competency at basic field medicine had sealed his fate. Training started when he was eleven, and from that point, riding with Éomer was all he knew. And despite the fact that his love of books ran deep, his love of life in the saddle ran far, far deeper.

That was why the day they said he would never ride again nearly killed him.

Months of healing, and months of wandering what on Arda he was healing for.

Medicine was all he had left. The fact that Tildan's loneliness had carved a position for him as Healer in Chief was sheer dumb coincidence. So, was he _lucky_ to have been given the position? To Birshen, 'luck' was a fickle word, carved from fate and unhappy chance.

The glass rose for his lips again – only this time, it did not make it. He came forward in his chair and gave the door a deeply irritated glare. Someone had definitely knocked. Birshen was far beyond the mood for entertaining, and he turned back to his desk, glass in hand-

Again, the door: sharp, concise raps.

Annoyance pushed him to his feet with an unrestrained growl attesting to his irritation. The brandy swayed his body as he rose, showing him just how clouded it had made his head. Birshen pushed past it doggedly, passing the dust-shrouded saddle on its stool as he limped to the door, his fingers ghosting a trail just out of reach of the tanned hide as they did every time he passed it.

"I swear," he growled, fingers closing over the door handle. He wrenched the door open – "You'd better be dying, or I'll-"

"Good evening, Birshen. Drinking alone again, I see."

Any trace of fog in his head evaporated. Gríma stood in the shadows of the hall, flinching a little from the dim glow of Birshen's room. The traitor's insipid eyes flashed a sly look at the healer from behind a curtain of lank dark hair. That smell sat around him, the smell Birshen always associated with mouldering dark places and forgotten things.

"Leave." Hate sat heavy in his stomach, hot and ten times as potent as any brandy. Ready violence built in his muscles. "I have nothing to say to you."

"How rude," said Gríma with an air of confidence he rarely exhibited. "I was hoping for a more civilised conversation than that."

"Sorry to disappoint you." The door made to slam in the miserable cur's face, but a swift foot jutted across the threshold. Birshen looked down on it, wishing he still possessed a sword.

"What a pity." That leering face came around the door … and there was something in those washed-out eyes, an amused glimmer of warning that set the fire in Birshen's stomach to ice. A white hand pushed the door open again, and Birshen's sense told him to allow it. "All I wished was to thank you," Gríma continued, as though no move had been made to shut him out.

Confusion. "For what?"

Gríma's hairless brows rose in mock surprise. "For your help today."

Birshen bristled, an unrestrained snarl twisting his features. "I _never _helped you!"

"Oh, but you did." Gríma stepped forward, entering the chamber without invitation. "It would have been so much messier with Éowyn getting in the way. A bad business," he continued with a conversational air, as he allowed his scathing gaze to wander with lazy contempt over Birshen's scant possessions. A barely restrained smirk warped his lipless mouth as his eyes lingered on the spear hole in dust-shrouded saddle. "A pity she had to see her brother abandon her."

Something gold flashed in Gríma's hand, Birshen noticed, something half obscured by the stuff of his sleeve, but just deliberately visible enough, something Birshen knew well-

The punch was a shot of lightning, a knife of rage, one burst of violence to Gríma's mouth powerful enough to fire him into the corridor.

The limitations of his leg counted for nothing as he followed and pinned the rat to the far wall, their faces so close he could see the tiny flecks in Gríma's irises and hear the panicked fluttering flights of breath from the coward's chest. He had his hands wound tight in the cloth at Gríma's throat, ignoring the pulses of sharp pain in his strike-hand -

Gríma's worm-like tongue darted out around his lips, the same trait of fear Birshen knew from childhood. "Before you go any further, listen -"

Birshen slammed Gríma's back hard against the wall, barely satisfied by the yelp he won. "I will _never _listen to you!" Another slam against the wood. "Understand?"

But the threat did little as Gríma pushed on, the words tripping from his tongue quick-fire: "The Meduseld is mine, as are all in it-"

"You own _nothing!_"

"But I do, healer." To Birshen's utter dismay, the sickly face inches from his own twisted into a smile, flashing crimsoned teeth in the half-light, the grin of a blood demon. His voice suddenly reached a lethal whisper that could have been screamed in Birshen's face for the strength of what he said: "I _am _the Meduseld. Because I am everywhere inside this building: I am in the guard and in the council; I am within those wenches who idle in the kitchens and those simpletons who man the stables. Not a corner of these halls hears a whisper if I don't hear it first. And you are completely alone, Birshen: there is not a single man or woman in this miserable hole you can trust-"

"_I don't care!_" Birshen spat. His heart beat agonisingly hard in his chest … because he knew it was all true. He knew his world – the world he and Éomer and Théodred and Éowyn had shared since birth – was gone … and it terrified him. Terror focused into rage, rage with a target – his hands were shaking with it - and he would see Gríma's blood colour the floorboards before this was done. "_You_ are nothing more than a poisonous _louse_ and I _swear_, if you have touched so much as a _hair_ on her head-"

Something changed in Gríma's eyes … a kind of ugly look of triumph that made Birshen's stomach drop. When he opened his senses beyond his anger and the dung in his grip, he saw them, the four men who had ghosted through the darkness on either side. Anger could be a dangerous distraction to indulge.

"I don't doubt you, Birshen." That lethal calm again, bolstered by the appearance of his thugs, the same men who had overpowered Éomer earlier. "Equally, if you _did _hurt me, a touch, even a _word _I could construe as ill-mannered, the first place _they _go will be to her." The biliously pale mask of his face turned dark with meaning. "I am sure you don't want that."

Birshen's fists released. He stepped back slowly, a mouse caught in the unblinking sights of a viper. He shook his head, appalled at the threat Gríma was prepared to level at Éowyn to keep him in check. "Why? Why are you doing this?"

"Why have I _done _this," Gríma corrected, pinning Birshen with blade-sharp eyes. Sourness twisted his lips, his words bitter spears: "Perhaps now, you will all understand what a foolish mistake it was to make an enemy of me."

Birshen's brow crumpled in confusion, straining to comprehend what he could be speaking of… He knew his eyes widened in surprise as his memory found the only thing Gríma could conceivably be trying to use against him. "That was eleven years ago. _Eleven years ago, _Gríma! We were little more than _boys!_"

"And _look at me!_" Gríma spat back.

Birshen flinched, refusing to comply with Gríma's demand. Because he did not need to look: he saw it every time their paths crossed, had done for the past eleven years. He did not need to see the malformation of Gríma's spine to know to what he pertained.

"We never meant…"

"Oh, save your excuses," Gríma snarled. "I wasn't interested in them then, and I'm not interested in them now."

The guilt subsided, bringing Birshen back to the present. "So that's your reasoning? You will take down an entire kingdom for the sake of avenging the prank of foolish children?"

"There are other benefits," Gríma uttered quietly.

"And they are enough to make you happy to betray your king?" Birshen fired back. "Your king, who took you in and made you his most trusted advisor?" That was what really bit Birshen. Gríma was petty - it was one of the many reasons they had loathed him as a children – but to willingly take the trust of a man such as King Théoden and twist it -

"I told you, healer." Gríma reminded with a grin, backing away as the four men came forward. "The Meduseld is mine now. _You _are mine-"

The blow to his leg was powerful enough for his pride to fly and allow the sharp shout of pain freedom. It was enough for him to go down, falling with all the grace of a felled tree. From his new place on the floor, he saw Gríma's face dip into his field of vision, saw the satisfied sneer of yellowed teeth. "_Understand?_"

He understood perfectly, and he did not need that foot swinging into his line of vision to imprint it on him any further. But, of course, it happened all the same.

-(())-

A harsh _zip _past his ear and shards of shattered bark pitted his face. Another arrow intended for his back buried itself in the trunk ahead ringing a frightened squeal from his mare. He pulled her tight left around the sudden cluster of trees in their path. Two shafts smacked the tree where his head would have been, and Daerahil whipped her round again, not allowing her to keep straight. Snowflakes hit his face and eyes like ice pellets and set his skin afire, but he could not afford to care. Excited shrieks spat through the trees – ahead – behind – _everywhere - _and he was so unbelievably terrified-

"_Artil! Fly! Fly!_"

The skeletons of beech and ash teemed with nightmare shadows, shades of his own race armed with bows and shrieking in ecstasy at the promise of his blood. This part of the forest was completely overrun by the enemy: any who had remained behind after the king's order of evacuation was either dead or captured. Not that there was much real difference between the two. To be captured by orcs was ultimately to die. _When_ was a merely a matter of when toying with their prize lost its appeal.

The trunks were finally thinning. As soon as they could break the treeline, he could give her her head and let her fly across the open land–

Another pull on her mouth and their new direction thwarted the arrow-

_Thwup_

The punch to his back nearly sent him over her shoulder. His honey mare reared mid-gallop and flung her head back, catching him with her neck. Daerahil's arms wrapped around her, forgetting the reins in a whirl of sudden dizziness and shock. Air was molten fire in his lungs, deep pulls giving him nothing. Through the fog of confusion as his body and mind tried to synchronise themselves again, all he knew was her solidarity beneath him, feeling the heat of her effort to keep them both alive pumping with the fight of her iron muscles, her powerful legs battling the snow and treacherous hard ground beneath…

Daerahil found himself again, trying to forget the burning agony set deep in his shoulder and rising in the stirrups, the reins tight in his trembling hands. Artil responded, grateful for the freedom of her back and neck. Ahead, he could see it, the break in the trees, the blue light of snow at night beyond blurred by the blizzard that raged there-

His horse bellowed - stumbled - found her footing, bellowed again-

They were out.

The snowfall within the forest was nothing compared to the tempest that hit them in the open. No trees tempered the blasts of icy wind, the mountains too far away to impact the vigour of the blizzard. Even his elven sight failed to penetrate the wall of white fury to see the peaks of the Hithaeglir to which they fled. Only his knowledge of his home, polluted as it was, guided him through his blindness…

But the despair bit hard at Daerahil's throat when the wind-shredded hunting howls of wargs skipped over the storm to him, threaded with the bloodlust of their riders. His muscles seized with near-debilitating terror, sensation warping with the sudden freezing of his blood. Light-headedness threatened to send him from the saddle into their coming jaws. They could outrun a horse, he had seen it before…

He had to think beyond his fear, he had to concentrate if they were to stand a chance…

He had to ignore the closing gap between hunters and hunted…

His hunters vocalised their sadistic pleasure in a cacophony of high-pitched yammering and screeches of delight. The excitement of his pursuers clamoured over the thunder of his own heart and the fierce burn of his panicked breathing, shredding his hope of survival and whipping it away on the wind. They were closing in. He knew Artil's endurance was ebbing with each desperate surge of strength she threw into their flight…

Daerahil slipped the reins through his fingers, only just keeping his contact with her mouth. A glance over his shoulder spiked new agony in his heart when he saw her flank, the twin shafts stark and deep against her honey-coloured hide. And beyond, the beasts he knew would kill them – ten at least - coming through the tempest with unstoppable speed, bearing down on them in a nightmare image of death. So close now he could see their dagger fangs, bared in determination to bring down the kill. And on their backs, their orc masters, grinning with the thrill of the chase and promised blood.

Daerahil turned away, straining to see to the river through the constant sting of flying ice, meltwater from his crown running an ice river down his face and merging with his tears.

Artil proved her measure by doing her best to ignore the bolts in her hide, stretching out to and trying to unleash the true potential of her speed…

But the promise of solid land, of a chance to flee from death, was a lie. Snow spray plumed as Artil's legs plunged into the first drift, dragging at her limbs with an unexpected weight. The stuff was far deeper than he had anticipated, so deep her gallop was clipped to desperate bounds. Artil's breath billowed and strained with the new effort, her mouth wide and foaming with the need to get away… She rose, gained speed – and hit another drift, hard. Somehow she found the strength to pull forward but it was draining from her as freely as her blood, her breathing ragged drags…

The land started to dip, descending for the shores of the Anduin. The river was broad and slow here, unlike the bottleneck Thranduil's forces strained to protect deep in the forest behind him: it should be deeper in winter's hold, solid enough to cross. If they could reach the river-

"_NO-!_"

The warg careered into Artil's path from the side, slammed into her chest and closed its savage jaws around her leg, snapping it as a child might a stick. The horse bowled over in the thing's vice-like grip with a bellow of terror and sickening agony. The violence of the collision flung Daerahil out of the saddle and into the snow with jarring finality, pain shooting through his shoulder and neck at the impact.

They converged on her in less than a breath. Bloodthirsty snarls streaked with her squeals their riders laughing and goading their mounts on at the sport of Artil's death-

Daerahil did not know how he got up, trying to block her screams and the heavy smell of her blood and making his terror-softened legs run. He fought against the snow, trying desperately to reach his own equilibrium and find the thin crust of the snow to light upon it as only his kind could. But his footfalls were heavier than they should be, the wound at his shoulder and blinding panic curbing his natural grace. His boots disappeared and he stumbled like his poor horse – once – twice – and just like his now silent mare, the warg slammed into him. But the beast misjudged its own power, hitting him too fast for it to control, and rather than taking him out, it bowled him over, tumbling into the snow with a yelp. Surprise and pain wrung themselves from Daerahil's throat but he was up again, faster than the beast-

Running again. Behind him, he heard it struggle to rise, snapping and snarling in its own version of the vile curses its rider blared. Next time he knew it would not make the same mistake-

The land dropped away from his flying feet, as though something massive had scooped it out from under him. Daerahil cried out, his limbs flailing uselessly-

He landed hard on the sheet of ice, his feet disappearing through the thin crust to the frigid waters below, and it _hurt_. A cry rent the air at the shock of it, his reflexes jolting him free and rolling his body across the splitting surface. Daerahil dragged air into his reluctant lungs, looked up-

It was mid-leap, blood-soaked maw wide and destined right for him-

The pain in his feet passed to nothing as he scrambled to get away. He was up again, falling out of reach more than running-

The ice threw an almighty buck with another ear-splitting _crack_ and threw him off his feet – Daerahil used the momentum to fling himself forward, landing hard again but rolling with the impact to bring himself back to his feet. He spun to see what had happened, hearing the ice strain even under his elven weight…

Ice water slashed the snow crust with the violence of the warg's struggle, the thing yelping in panic and fighting to climb onto the ice. But the sheet only broke away from it, refusing to give it purchase for recovery. The orc had abandoned his beast, trying to make for the shore … but the momentum of the warg's leap had taken them far out into the water, putting him in much the same position as his floundering animal.

The others that had joined the pursuit paced the high bank, their snarls agitated and alarmed by their companion's distress.

Two orcs dismounted, loath to let their quarry escape from them. Daerahil stared in horror as they scaled the bank, dexterous as a pair of rats, coming to the water's edge with jagged daggers drawn. The elven lord took a backstep and instantly froze at the stressed creak his action enticed, any hope of bolting eradicated by the thinness of the ice. Only his elven grace kept him out of the icefire waters beneath…

An orcish foot touched the ice, tested it – two feet – the other joined him, victorious snarls marking their success. The first one looked up, locking eyes with his prey, and he laughed. Daerahil's knees nearly buckled with fear, his breath quick and shaking.

The two orcs advanced: "Think you can get away so easily, filth? We'll string our belts with your guts-!"

The high splitting of sheering ice threw them both back to the solidity of the bank with panicked squeals. Their cajoling morphed into spat curses of frustration, the entire band finally drawing their bows, because they would rather see Daerahil's blood spilt over the ice than let him go…

But when they looked back for their target, he had already melted carefully into the shroud of the storm, slipping out of sight and beyond their reach.

-(())-

Gimli sat with the ease of a dwarf victorious as he watched the featureless plains in the darkness. He had won a battle tonight, and he felt that the pipe currently between his teeth was a hard-earned reward for his troubles. Because the rarest of things was happening not ten feet behind him, and it was entirely his doing:

Aragorn was sleeping.

Naturally, there had been a fight, a clash of wills, a display of outlandish stubbornness on both sides … but Gimli had an advantage over his companion. _He _had slept the night prior, and had reserves to call upon. It had been a dirty trick really, cruel even, but it had worked.

How could a man so incapable of looking out to his own needs competently tend to those of another? How could a man in such a condition possibly see beyond his own fatigue to track their stolen friends? How could that man dare to command his one remaining able companion, knowing he was making himself unfit for the task?

The words had been harsh, but they had had the desired effect: Aragorn had backed down after little more than a paltry effort at angered resistance, crumbling under Gimli's quick-fire attack. It all happened to be true, and there was no real argument the man cou ld attempt that stood a chance of succeeding.

Gimli understood that it would take time for Aragorn to relax into sleep … particularly when Legolas suffered another fit not long after the argument was won. The dwarf worried that it would be all the ranger would need to believe he had to stay awake … but when Legolas finally settled, sleep still possessed him in its selfish grasp, and there was nothing Aragorn could possibly do for him. Under oath that he would wake the man if any aspect of Legolas' condition should change, Gimli was left alone, staring into the night with nothing more than his own thoughts and his pipe to keep him company.

Even from his place in the dark, Gimli could hear the elf's fevered breathing, too quick, too shallow. His hands still felt the burning heat of his skin. He still smelt the blood and the sickness. He still saw Aragorn, with his broken silver eyes fixed hard and hot and unseeing on the grass, with his friend tight to his chest, his voice thick as he tried to utter comforting words into unhearing ears. But it was that fierce scream of pain that really hurt, yet another added to the building catalogue of many his nightmares could choose from…

The wind did not sing with its own wild heart, but screamed with Legolas' voice, flinging varying pitches of pain at Gimli's ears. Even the sound of the swaying grasses rasped in agony rather than whispered sweetly to the night. No matter how hard he tried, Gimli could not persuade himself that he heard anything different, despite Legolas' current silence. Perhaps this was it. Perhaps this was what he was destined to hear, to the end of his days.

A sigh drifted from deep in his chest and danced flippantly with the pipe smoke in the ice blast that was the wind. He had not had a pipe for days, loath to use one in Legolas' presence … but after the events of tonight, he needed one to settle his nerve. If the wind changed direction, he would snuff it out. Until then, he would relish the slim comfort it gave him and watch over his two companions in the dark.

A glance over his shoulder showed him his friends enclosed in what might look like peace to any other. In what Gimli could only guess as an attempt to offer some form of shelter, Aragorn slept tight against Legolas' back, using his own body to block the cold barrage of the wind, an arm draped protectively over the archer's own.

Aragorn would not be pleased when he discovered Gimli had elected to not wake him for watch. Not that Gimli cared … he was a dwarf of Erebor: his people danced in dragon fire. He could endure the ire of one ranger.

-(())-

_He likens their march to the flow of a river: steady, constant, without end, ceaselessly running through the deep snow, destined for a place far from here, where the scorched earth has never known the frozen kiss of pure winter. There is something inherently wrong with the image he sees, though he cannot mark what it is … but trying to look into their faces shows him. Because they simply have no faces. It is like they wear a shroud of mist over their features, and despite their armour and weapons, they look ethereal and fragile, like a too strong breath could scatter them into the fathoms of Time. They march, but the sound of their passing is unnaturally monotone: no chink of armour, no whisper of conversation, no ripple of song as is common even with elven armies. Just a deep, slow thrum._

_Thrum._

_Thrum._

_Like a slowed heartbeat._

_Aragorn knows that it is a stream of ghosts he witnesses, clear as the day they advanced three thousand years ago to their deaths, the buck of Eryn Galen flapping high over their heads. Days spent as a student of Lord Elrond had told him of an ill-fated army carried by a leader too jealous of his own power to cede command to another. The price for his pride had been more than two thirds of their lives, his own included…_

_And the life of his eldest grandson…_

_As though the thought trips something in his awareness, Aragorn realises that he does not stand alone. His head turns to see the one with whom he shares his spectator's position …_

_There is an elf sat astride a large horse, chest heaving as steam snakes from the animal's flank. Unlike them, his face is ice-sharp in the bright white light of winter, every aspect of his features singing to Aragorn's memory. He is not part of the great company, though he clearly wishes to be. The chain of youth holds him back, and he is little more than a slip of the archer he will one day become. Eyes wide and questing search the sea of featureless faces, and he ignores the teasing wisps of pale gold hair that flutter for his attention. Coltish promise sits about his limber form, and despite the weapons adorning his back, it is doubtful that he has the true trained strength he needs to survive where he clearly plans to go._

_Knowing him much later in his life tells Aragorn that it will be a mistake to call him a child to his face … but the label fits him perfectly as a pair of old gloves, and Aragorn finds it unfathomably sad that he is here, armed for a war he cannot possibly fight._

_The horse whirls after a sharp kick and a shout of "Baerahir!", and Aragorn's stomach flips:_

_Legolas rarely spoke of his brother. His loss, even after three thousand years, still sat too heavy in Legolas' heart for him to give voice to Baerahir's memory. To see him now, to maybe hear his voice, renders an element of curiosity in Aragorn too strong to ignore, and he is pleased that he travels with the horse up the line, towards the clear figure he sees marching away from them amongst the sea of ghosts, only the back of a dark gold head visible…_

_A ripple, deep in his chest, and Aragorn's senses flare warning. The same sensation clearly does not touch his friend's younger self, cantering the horse up the line to his brother –_

"_Legolas! Daro!"_

_Aragorn is not heard. They level with Baerahir's band, the horse pulled to an excited walk in reflection of his rider's own elation. But Baerahir does not turn, does not flinch at the arrival of horse and rider. They are alongside, but the elven warrior's face is obscured by golden hair with a deft flick of the wind –_

"_Baerahir!"_

_The head that turns is not Baerahir. It is not an elf._

_It is melted flesh and flashes of bone-_

_The scream of horror that erupts from Legolas is drowned by the thing's own vile shriek as it flings itself on him, throwing the terrified horse over into the snow, and Aragorn cries Legolas' name over and over, but there is nothing he can do –_

-(())-

The pipe dripped embers into the grass, flung aside so violently that its tip was embedded in a tuft. Gimli found his feet beyond the fright the sudden screams had instilled in him, but he was too slow compared to Aragorn -

The ranger was on his knees and grappling with the archer's wrists as his hands battled to reach his head. It took all of Aragorn's strength to restrain the sudden power Legolas had found whilst trying to be mindful of the broken bone, even if Legolas was not. It seemed no level of pain from his wrist could restrain him from clawing at his own head violently enough to rip his hair –

"Legolas! Saes - it was only a dream! _Legolas!_"

Eyes that had been sheathed against the sun for over a day fixed with Aragorn's own, wide and brilliant silver-blue in the moonlight. Despite the sickness that crippled his body, Aragorn did not think he had ever seen them so frighteningly clear. The headache that was his constant companion now was practically singing with his friend's distress, and it was all Aragorn could do to hold the elf's hands down and not raise his own to his head -

"_I can't see him! I can't see him! I can't-!_"

Another seizure took his sentence and twisted it into a scream. Aragorn released Legolas' wrists as they jerked to his stomach, his body folding into itself with agony. And over the agonised cries, one name ripped itself from him with the keening hurt of a broken child, over and over. It crushed crystal grief from Aragorn's eyes, and even Gimli, who knew nothing of Legolas' past, recognised the cavernous heart-pained cries for what they were, because pain and loss transcend all barriers of race and language.

-(())-

Early morning painted each individual frond of grass with a crown of gold, the wind making them wave as one in welcome to the new day. The bowing heads were adorned with dew that shimmered with such brilliant perfection it shamed any mined gem that had ever graced a lady's throat, and had the dwarf belonging to the odd party slowly travelling the wide expanse of Rohan been in a mind to care, he might have found himself jealous. In the short hours that had elapsed since the break of dawn, the landscape had fractured from featureless to pocked with rocky outcrops, becoming more inclined to rise and fall than continue flat as it had. Shadows still hugged the cold flanks of stone, dark with the lingering blue light of night, but the same hot amber touched at their heads with the promise of bringing them to warmth.

Silence was between them again, any words they might have considered speaking harried back by the memory of the night before. Aragorn's concentration was low to the ground again, his head bent to read what the tracks could tell him. Twice already they had been forced to backtrack, Aragorn's eyes falling foul of false tracks. Finding the true trail had worryingly nearly outmatched Aragorn's abilities, and both times they had had to rest Legolas' litter to allow Aragorn to cast out a wide search for the right path. Rainfall and time were against them, and it entered both their minds that, should there be a next time, they may not be so fortunate.

Aragorn felt the strain in his legs as the land listed high, and he raised his eyes to see where they were headed. They were coming to a large cluster of boulders, marching up and over a particularly steep crest of the land as a sentry of silent soldiers. Above the rush of his own blood past his ears and the elevated thrum of his heart, he heard something that made him pause…

An exaggerated huff of irritation from behind obscured the sound he was trying to pick out. "If you wanted to stop, what was wrong with stopping at the top? Now my legs have-"

"_Sshh!_"

Aragorn ignored the annoyed growl from behind him as his hearing picked through the conflicting noises of the wilds, dismissing each sound until he found the one he thought he had heard. He listened harder, and as it became more pronounced, he knew himself to be right. His heart bucked with relief and gladness, but more than a touch of apprehension marred his joy.

"To the rocks. Now!"

"Why? What is it?"

Aragorn could not help the flying grin he flipped in the direction of his companion. "Horses."

Gimli's brow disappeared under his helm. "Horses?" His face quickly darkened. "Friend or foe?"

"Only one way of telling," Aragorn replied, changing course for the shelter of the stones. Horses should mean the men of Rohan, and that in turn should mean good men … but Rohan sat in Orthanc's shadow, and he knew it would be foolishness to meet them without caution. Aragorn guided Gimli into the heart of the stones, picking a route with care that wound round the obscuring shoulder of rock to shield Legolas-

A breath later, and they would have been trampled where they stood. The shape of the land funnelled the riders up and over the rise, and both man and dwarf watched from hiding as hooves pummelled the earth where they had stood seconds before … and the trail they had followed for so long. The passing animals flicked soil and tussocks of grass against the stone, the air filling with the scent of earth and leather and horse. The land quaked in submission at their passing, the thunder of galloping hooves resonating deep in Aragorn's chest. The éored rode at a travelling gallop, stretching their horse's speed without pushing the animals to their full potential, and Aragorn deduced that they neither chased, nor ventured toward a destination. A patrol, then.

The coming of these men could spell a change in their fortunes, and Aragorn waited until the last horse had crested the summit and chased after its companions before he elected to leave his hiding place, an apprehensive Gimli close behind him. He pushed back his own misgivings, found his voice, and raised it high to the retreating backs of the riders.

"Hail, riders of Rohan!"

Even from where they stood high above the men, Aragorn saw a ripple of alarm pass through the riders at the ringing sound of his cry. Their leader wordlessly raised his spear in instruction to his men to turn their beasts, and the riders arced to follow him back up the incline to them. A rapid count, and Aragorn deduced that they numbered at one hundred and five, with another four horses running with them riderless, but in full tack. They must have seen battle, and recently.

"Hold steady," Aragorn breathed to his companion. Gimli made a noise at the back of his throat at the instruction, his heightened tension making it a strain to keep his axe from his hands as they found themselves at the full attention of over a hundred mounted warriors. Aragorn hoped his posture relayed confidence as he led Gimli down the hill towards the oncoming riders, wanting as much distance as possible between them and Legolas.

The speed of the coming éored afforded them no such luxury. Horses were steered into a tight and impenetrable ring, several beasts deep and flowing with the fierce and unfettered might of a storm. The wintering sun shredded into ribbons through the thicket of spears, brilliant and glaring, cutting into their sight until the world was nothing more than blinding white and stark shadow. Though instinct pushed their backs together and put them into ready battle stance, the mismatched pair found their senses utterly bewildered by the ever-morphing torrent of horses and men. They could keep no one man fixed in their sights for more than a breath. Aragorn bore his hands high, keeping his face as quietly impassive as possible and straining to not betray his own anxiety at the situation he had deliberately placed them in.

Aragorn's line of sight filled with tightly-packed horse muzzles, so close he could feel the heat of the snorts blasted at his face, heavy with exertion and excitement. They were so efficiently penned in, he could see nothing of the world beyond the sweating mounts … and the spears of their masters, levelled meaningfully at their faces.

A dapple grey pushed through the éored to come to the fore, and Aragorn and Gimli turned to face the man set to confront them.

"Who are you, to dare walk these lands without leave?" The hard cold of the stones they had hidden in moments ago could not match the unforgiving quality of the man's eyes and flat line of his mouth. Long hair the colour of the winter-scorched grass rippled beneath a fiercely decorated helm. A flaxen drift of horse hair mixed with his own as the wind knotted them together. Aragorn had a fair sense of who this young man was, as his memories of his travels earlier in his life told him the other looked remarkably akin to Éomund. Caution advised him to hold his tongue and keep his familiarities to himself…

"We are no threat to Rohan or her people," Aragorn offered, his tone quiet and non-threatening.

"I shall decide whether you bear threat or no," the captain returned with the low-level warning growl of a wolf. "Spies will often honey their voices and convince the blind they harbour no ill will."

"I promise you, we are no spies-"

"Then who are you?" he shot back. "Speak!"

"Why should we tell you anything when you wave spears in our faces? Eh?" Gimli came around Aragorn without his companion's leave, firing defiance at the taller warrior and earning himself a glare from the ranger. "A funny courtesy to extend to travellers come to your lands!"

A snarl at the challenge, and the captain dismounted, his feet landing with the weight of a man who had been in the saddle for a long time. It had no effect on his bearing as he rounded on the pair, his face dark that the trespassers dared challenge him. There was certainly no sign of fatigue when he drew his sword, angling the tip suggestively at Gimli's head.

"Because if you don't, I will fell both of you whe-"

Shock registered in the captain's eyes a split second after it found Aragorn and one of the mounted men behind him. Even as the rider's dismayed warning cry of "_Éomer!_" alerted his companions that something was wrong, it was too late…

Because there was already a long, white blade pressed firmly at the side of Éomer's throat.

Legolas stepped silently from behind the stunned warrior, the knife remaining perfectly poised to carry through his unspoken threat. The careful cat-like grace that embodied his movement belied his condition as Legolas ghosted into Éomer's line of sight. Elves could pass anywhere unseen if they wished, but for Legolas to not only have moved undetected through an entire éored, but to press a knife against their leader's throat, was no small achievement. He had moved through the tight formation with the unquestioning acceptance of the horses, and at the complete ignorance of their riders.

The captain's expression passed from outright furious at being caught so unawares, to stunned, his eyes travelling over the archer's countenance with little reservation. Aragorn could not blame him: he had never seen anyone that looked as Legolas did walk, let alone yield a weapon against another with an assassin's stealth.

This could only fall foul. Despite the unwavering stare Legolas pinned on the man at the other end of his knife, his body was not so keen to comply with the solidarity of his will … the slight shake of his arm, the subtle tremble taking control of his shoulder. Deliberate control bridled each breath, rounding off their sharp edges and forcing them to be seem steady and strong. All signs that spoke to Aragorn's knowledge of his friend, telling him he was beyond the known boundaries of his strength. "Legolas…"

Legolas ignored Aragorn's low warning. "My friends cause you no harm." His voice was checked, fighting to hold it together and force some illusion of strength into his words. Holding this pretence clearly pained him, as the tiny beads of sweat gathering at his grey brow openly betrayed. "I ask you-" he stopped. Took a breath. Swallowed. Continued: "I ask you, remove your threat. Or I will fell _you_ where you stand." A twitch of a smile backed his words. "I think that is near what you were saying."

Éomer's eyes narrowed, assessing Legolas' face, guarded but less concerned by the blade at his throat than he should be. Just the smallest trace of intrigue edged its way into his hard stare. He broached no response, keeping his eyes fixed on Legolas. Aragorn saw what he did and was hit by a wave of anger, not at Éomer, but at Legolas, for placing him in this situation, where he was forced to watch as the elf destroyed what little reserve he had left in an act of idiocy.

But Legolas' smile, in the end, was the final crack, the fatal splitting of the failing armour. The focus slipped from Legolas' eyes, the smile fading to be replaced by a light frown that fought to stay in place. "Estel…"

He let go. The white knife lost both its conviction and the silent battle, the blade becoming loose in Legolas' fingers as his body let him down. He pulled a stunted breath, wavering away from Éomer with little more than a half step before his knees buckled and sent him for the grass.

Spears be damned. Aragorn had Legolas under the arms before his body could hit the earth. The ranger eased the elf down in his hold, keeping his charge upright against him and allowing his own legs to fold carefully beneath him. Legolas was heavy against his chest, his golden head resting loosely at his shoulder. Aragorn's fingers found the archer's pulse at his throat, a flitting and flighty thing under the press. The quick touch was fast becoming a habit. _Foolish creature. _A sigh breeched Aragorn's lips, private and steadying.

The ranger lifted his eyes to the man looking down on them both in the waving grasses. Éomer came across to Aragorn as a guarded character, tempered by experience to protect his thoughts. But if he thought he was hiding his mind well in that moment, he was mistaken: his eyes were prised wide with rods of surprise, his strong brows so high under his helm they could have been pinned in place.

"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. This is Gimli son of Gloín-" he gave a nod in Gimli's direction. Gimli took it as a prompt and offered Éomer a grudging bow of acknowledgement, taking care to not quite lose the glower in his stare. "-And our foolish friend here is Legolas." Aragorn gave the elf a fond look, but his eyes were pushed aside by the burn of pain he received when he saw that Legolas had slipped from them again. He swallowed his worry away, and carried on…

"Our friends were stolen from us." The explanation fell at the horseman's feet, a sorry thing pleading for understanding. "We travel your lands in pursuit of those who took them, but our companion is hurt and sick and our hunt has been slowed. We slip further and further behind, and their trail grows colder with every hour."

Éomer stared at Aragorn, that same stare he had pinned on Legolas mere moments ago. Searching, assessing. He looked for reasons not to trust, and Aragorn resolved to give him nothing to find. Unflinching, Aragorn returned the look, open and non-threatening. He would tell the truth, what he could tell, and say when he could not.

Those green eyes narrowed again. "Taken by whom?"

"A band of Uruk-hai. We were a party of eight, but we were torn apart some days past. We found each other again, but the Uruks found them first. We tried to stop them, but they were too many, and we failed." Bitterness twisted his mouth with resentment, his eyes tracing down to the still elf in his arms. "Just as we fail now."

There was no question from the horse master of how eight came to be five, for which Aragorn was thankful. But Éomer's brows drew close, a snap of something flashing over his face. Dread? It woke an answering sense of unease in Aragorn's chest.

"Uruk-hai?"

"They travel westward across your plains. Servants of Saruman the Betrayer, marked with the White Hand. We have hunted them for days now."

The Rohirric warrior's eyes took on a new gravity. "Then you hunt ghosts."

Aragorn felt the blood drain from his face.

"We annihilated the Uruks two nights gone."

Aragorn's heart lurched painfully. Two nights? _We were still in the forest. No … Ai Eru, no…_

"Then you must have seen them!" Gimli forced his way forward, animation making his beard positively skip with excitement, even as Aragorn felt sick with countering dread. "Hobbits! Two hobbits! Do you have them here?"

Gimli threw his gaze over the surrounding horses and riders, sighting nothing beyond the solid wall of horse flesh. "Come on! Where are they?" Exasperation took over as the friends he so ardently believed must be concealed amongst the troupe failed to come forward and he lifted his voice. "Merry! Pippin! Come out, you rascals!"

The rock Aragorn had felt teetering on the edge in his chest dropped into his stomach. _Annihilated… _His fingers tightened in the stuff of Legolas' sleeve. _No. Please… _"They are small, child-like even. They were taken together." Desperation wanted Éomer to look at him with a sudden ripple of recognition, a flash of a grin and a _Bring them forward! _to the back of the éored. But there was no such look, no grin, no cry. Just a hopeless and sorry shake of the head, heavy sympathy in his winter-grass eyes. "All were slaughtered and burned."

The hope fell out of Gimli's earthen eyes, his ecstatic grin tumbling from his mouth. He looked to Aragorn, finding a mirror of the devastation he felt in the ranger. "They're dead?" The dwarf shook his head to himself, disbelief and shame warring across his features. "You mean we failed them. After all this time … all this heartache … for naught?"

The ranger looked down to the archer in his arms. Legolas was looking back at him. There was nothing he could say in all the tongues they shared that his glass eyes did not express better. Aragorn pressed a hand in comfort against Legolas' chest. _This is not your fault._

"Did you see them?" The question worked its way out of Aragorn's throat without the conscious choice of his mind. He had not known that there was hope left in him until it gave itself voice.

Éomer looked uncomfortable. "We saw nothing out of the ordinary," he confirmed. "But in the heat of battle, and the dark of night, something so small can pass unnoticed."

Aragorn heard both aspects of what the warrior said. But while there was no definite yes or no, there was a chance, and it was that chance that Aragorn would cling to. "Then we must continue to look," he resolved, both to himself and those surrounding him. "I cannot abandon them. Not without being sure."

Éomer nodded. It was a sign of understanding, of respect, and Aragorn dimly felt that the other man had taken his measure and was satisfied by what he had found. Without warning, he gave a shrill whistle. "Hasufel! Arod!"

The ring of horses parted for the two answering Éomer's summons: a chestnut and a dark-pointed grey. Both horses were riderless, still fully tacked and ready. Gloved hands took a bridle each, holding them steady. "These horses lost their riders in the raid," Éomer said, looking on the animals with eyes that saw ghosts on their backs. "Their masters are gone, and there is no hope of getting them back." He took his attention from the horses and turned it to the curious company his éored had beset. "There is no worldly good that can replace a fallen companion. The best recompense I can offer is these horses, and my wish that they bear you well, wherever fate takes you."

Aragorn tilted his head in thanks, even as bitterness bit at the back of his throat. Horses. If only they had had them days ago, this entire sorry situation could have been so, so different. "And we thank you for them. But…" Aragorn paused, considering. Legolas remained pressed limply to his body, having not so much as shifted during his exchange with the rider. The news of the possible deaths of their companions weighed heavily on all of them, but Aragorn knew Legolas well enough to understand that he attributed the entire level of blame for their failure on himself. It was, after all, exactly as the archer had said nights before, that helping him would stop them saving the hobbits. And as heart breaking as it was, he was right.

Aragorn knew he could cover the land at speed to where the battle had taken place. But with Legolas? It would be impossible for him to ride at a gallop as Aragorn intended … taking him could only hinder their negligible chances of finding Merry and Pippin alive…

But leaving him…

Aragorn found himself faced with the decision Legolas had tried to make for him. It was funny how these things managed to spin on him.

"Our companion cannot endure much more of what he has already been put through, despite what he would have you think-" exasperated fondness brushed over Aragorn's tone, before the gravity of their situation pulled it back down. "He needs help, beyond what my skill can give him in the Wilds."

Éomer breathed out through his nose, looking to his companions. "I know what it is you ask," he replied heavily. "Had you asked me a week ago, I would have sent him to Edoras with my blessing. But there are snakes in the Meduseld, and they have poisoned my king against us. We here stand faithful to the throne, and we are banished for it. I fear that sending your companion there would be folly."

Trouble in Edoras? That was not what Aragorn wanted to hear. What was he meant to do? Did the Valar hold something against him? Every move was a false step, every decision felt an idiot's choice. To come so far, to recover Legolas from the claws of death, only to think of sending him alone into a land plagued by political strife…

"I'll go with him."

Aragorn looked up in surprise at his dwarven companion. "What did you say?"

"I will go with the elf to Edoras," Gimli reiterated with a stab of impatience. "You're the more able rider, and he needs someone at his back. I'll do it."

There were no words Aragorn could find to express the gratitude he felt towards Gimli in that moment. Whatever it was that had passed between the pair and removed their age-old prejudices was both a mystery and a blessing. Aragorn found he could not care less.

Although reluctance seemed to hold his head in a vice, he nodded mutely, knowing he had to accept whatever help was offered. No matter how dangerous.

Éomer gave a reluctant nod of acceptance. "Very well." He mounted his horse again, the animal shifting under his weight in anticipation of departure. His men raised their spears, readying their own mounts. The tight ring of horses relaxed, daylight flowing back to the three friends. "Go where you will in these lands with my blessing. Edoras is half a day away if you don't tarry. You'll have to ford the Entwash: turn your horse's head towards the mountains and trust him to take himself home." Looking to Aragorn, Éomer continued: "You've a day's hard ride north-east to where we burned the Uruk filth at the edge of Fangorn..." The warrior paused. "I hope you find what you seek. But hear this, and hear it well:" Éomer's words were directed at Gimli and enforced with a hard stare. Gimli returned it, attentive but wary.

"I told you there are snakes in Edoras. The truth is the place if rife with them. Trust none other, _none other_, than my sister, Éowyn, and the healer, Birshen. If anyone can save your friend, it's him."

"If they are all I can trust, then how do I get them to trust me in return?" Gimli fired back. "If your name is black in your city and the floor as thick with traitors as you say it is, how can I earn their trust myself?"

"Get an audience with my sister. Tell her, you met a man on the road who says he foaled her horse. She will know you were sent by me…" Éomer paused. "Give her news of me? Tell her … tell her, it wasn't his fault."

Neither Aragorn nor Gimli knew to what he referred, but Gimli made a low grumble of acceptance of the request.

"Riders!" The horse lord raised his spear high, his time spent on the strangers long enough, spurring his dapple mount into a canter. The others followed, flowing with smooth and practiced perfection into line behind their commander. In no time at all, the only evidence of their presence was the sweet scent of horse and bruised grass. The wind plucked playfully at Aragorn's hair, flicking it in his eyes and sending a familiar chill through the gaps of his clothing.

"That was a stupid stunt. You're lucky you didn't get yourself killed."

Legolas' gaze drifted up at the softly-uttered admonishment. His breathing was shallow and quick, the rich colouring of the winter morning failing to lift the pallor from his skin. "You needed me."

"I had everything perfectly under control, actually. It certainly would not have resorted in the need for blades."

"I beg to differ," Legolas gave back, shifting against his companion's chest in an attempt to right himself. All the action resulted in was a hiss of pain and him collapsing back against Aragorn gracelessly, a fresh sheen of perspiration glazing his brow.

Aragorn shook his head as he pushed his hands under Legolas' body, toning the right levels of tension into his own back and legs for his intended action. "You are no friend to yourself, Legolas," he rebuked. "I'm getting up. Ready?"

"No-"

The ranger rose regardless, stressing his legs enough to lift both of them from the ground and falling deaf to the sharp yelp it rendered from the elf in his arms. They had to get up, whether it hurt or not, and Aragorn found himself annoyed enough to dampen his sense of sympathy. He trudged over to the waiting horses, casting his keen eye over the two beasts. Both were war horses, but the chestnut was the lighter of the pair, better built for speed, while the grey was more of an endurance animal, a little stockier and better suited to bearing a heavier man…

Or two riders.

"Gimli." Aragorn threw his brows at the horse he had selected for them. "Pull his stirrups down and mount, can you?"

The dwarf made a sound at the back of his throat, something between a growl and a huff, if such a sound could exist. But he did as Aragorn asked, stretching above his head to pull the irons down the long straps into riding position. They reached far below where his legs could possibly reach – it would be a stretch for the stout warrior even if they were adjusted to their highest point.

"What if he had turned on you? What if his éored had killed you for threatening their captain? It would have been their right. And what about your side? You could have torn it – you probably have. And what do we do then, Legolas?" It burned, this fire of anger spilling from his mouth. He wondered at its strength, surprised by its power.

"Why are you so angry?"

"Because you don't _think_, Legolas!"

They came to the grey's side, Gimli sitting awkwardly in the saddle like he fervently wished he could walk instead. The reins sat loose in his hands, too slack to offer any real instruction to the animal beneath him. Arod was clearly unimpressed by the idea of his new rider, his head high and ears flicking in protest at the novice on his back. It was not a perfect situation by any means, but the pair of them would have to work out their differences, and fast.

Aragorn altered his hold on Legolas' body to try and ease him up into the saddle behind Gimli as carefully as possible, gentle despite his irritation with the archer. It was difficult, and not entirely successful, as the spike of agony in his own head betrayed when Legolas was settled at Gimli's back.

His hands found the girth buckle and proceeded to battle against the cold steadily seizing his joints to tighten the thing. Arod, like so many other more savvy horses, knew of his novice rider and clearly hoped for shared naivety on Aragorn's part. "Breathe out!" The ranger gave the stallion's chest a soft thump of warning, at which the horse gave a breathy – and decidedly disappointed – huff. _I'm wise to you, my friend. _Aragorn pulled the strap tight with the extra inches his rebuke earned him.

Stirrups next-

"You're wrong."

Numbed fingers paused at the elf's quiet accusation. "Really." His eyes fixed on the leathers, assessing the holes and the length of Gimli's legs, refusing to look up. This horse was far too large for him… "Gimli. Move your leg forward. No – up here. Thank you."

The slap of leather on leather coupled with the renewed odour of warm horse reached him as he tugged the strap clear. Even on the highest notch they would be too long. Two loops, then, and that should take the irons close enough…

Legolas was undeterred by the stony silence he being given. He might be ailing, but he had been born stubborn. "I do think." Again, the wall of silence. "I think about you. I think that you are my brother-" his voice bucked with pain, punctuated by an echoing spasm of heightened discomfort in Aragorn's head. Hands that had been so busy occupying his mind slowed, the horse-warmed stirrup iron near forgotten in his grip. "I think … I think I need to know you understand that."

"So you would stand at the mercy of a hundred spears?" the ranger challenged to the iron in his hand. "You would risk yourself to prove a point?"

"_No_." The word was soft, an offering to his understanding. "I would stand … I would stand at the mercy of one hundred _thousand_ spears. If there was one drop of blood left in my body, I would spend it for you."

"Legolas…"

"If it means," the archer pushed on, forcing the words past his lips with all the effort his waxing strength could allow. "If it means I earn your anger, I will take it gladly. Because it means you are well. And that is enough."

"_If it earns your anger, I will take it gladly." _And Aragorn would do the same. He had _done _the same, as the barely repressed shudder reminded him, the haunting shrieks of the Nine raking through his mind and stinging sensation finding the cuts in his palms and fingers again. They had been so far together, so _so _far…

"And I you, Legolas. Does that not tell you something?"

The archer fell quiet. Aragorn's mind returned to the cursed scree slope and the horrors it had held, and hoped that Legolas still could not recall it. If the previous night was anything to go by, their imprint on him was deep, a dark place where memories he had once treasured held the power to undo him completely.

As suddenly as it had struck, his anger dissipated, a drop of hot blood in an icy lake. He let his gaze finally meet that of his friend. Legolas looked right back through his own personal fog of hurt and worry, his need for understanding battling with the pain for dominance. Right then, it was concern for Aragorn that was winning out. The wind that shoved so enthusiastically at Aragorn's back whipped pale gold around the archer's face in a teasing dance, strands catching in his lashes and brushing over the hurts his face had taken over the past days. Legolas leaned into Gimli's back, his strength too clearly depleted, and if it bothered the dwarf at all, he gave no indication of it. An offering of peace and apology in the form of a wan smile, and Aragorn found that he could not help but return it. His hand found Legolas' as it rested against his leg, the calloused fingers achingly cold in his own. Once again, the struggle to retain focus was too much, and Legolas' eyes shuttered themselves, blocking out the brilliant sunlight and the stinging wind. He was not asleep – his clipped breathing told Aragorn as much – but he struggled to keep exhaustion from getting the better of him.

_We're losing him. _The thought flashed across the ranger's mind without warning. It knocked the breath from his chest and brought a numbing fear into his heart. A breath, two breaths, and he swallowed his rising grief.

"I will come to you," he affirmed, hearing the betraying pain in his own voice. Legolas started, his eyes flying open again. Any hope Aragorn had harboured that the archer would not detect his upset was dashed as Legolas' brow creased in reflected worry. The ranger managed a guarding smile, forcing it into his eyes. Whether the elf was deceived was not certain, but he lacked the strength to challenge Aragorn's lying mask, for which the ranger was selfishly thankful. "When I have found them, I will come to Edoras." Aragorn gripped Legolas' hand a little tighter, fighting with his reluctance to let go.

"Gimli."

The dwarf turned his head at the hail as though his neck had been fused. He looked quite comic, sitting stiff as a board on such a large animal. Aragorn broke away from his contact with their elven companion and adjusted the dwarf's grip on the reins, placing them into the proper position and shortening the leather for the correct contact with Arod's mouth.

"Remember what Éomer said: tell none who you really are, or what your true purpose is.

"You need to go west. If you ride steady, you'll be in Edoras by nightfall. He'll take you, don't worry about direction … you'll be best off if you canter, it'll be the smoothest pace for all of you, but you must rest him-"

Gimli waved Aragorn's instruction away with a: "Pahh, never mind about that! I can handle this dumb beast-"

Arod flicked his head back with a sharp and indignant snort and Gimli nearly fell from the saddle. Aragorn's brow peaked in amused doubt, but he said nothing to the contrary. "Here, take these and give them to the healer-" he handed the dwarf the last of his medical supplies. "Have Legolas drink the fever tea. There should be enough left to keep him comfortable…"

Silence took over, the same thought sidling into the minds of both man and dwarf. Both of them spared the elf a glance: consciousness had abandoned him, Legolas leaning heavily into Gimli's back. Gimli was the one to voice it. "…And if he fits?"

Aragorn's jaw tightened with his decision. "No more poppy."

Gimli adjusted his seat, releasing a slow breath that plumed into the snatching wind. It was blatantly clear in the set of his face that he wished for a different decree, but he held any comment back.

"He just isn't strong enough. I wish he could withstand it, but…"

"I know, I know." Gimli huffed. "Let's just prey he doesn't need it, eh?"

Aragorn nodded with a wan smile, backing from the horse with reluctance. Arod picked up on the impending departure, becoming fitful with anticipation.

"I'll see you in Edoras."

"You'd better! I'm a Son of Durin, not an elfling's nursemaid!" Despite the words, they were said in fond jest, and Aragorn knew that. All the same, Gimli amended: "I'll watch him, Laddie, be sure of that. He'll be fine. You'll see."

"Be safe. Both of you."

Gimli gave him an angled smirk in response before pulling Arod's head west - a little harder than the horse would clearly have liked by the way he shook his mane – and kicking him into a canter. The stallion took off, his gait smooth and powerful and glad to finally be away.

The wind plucked at the ranger's hair as he stood alone, watching the grey horse bear away his two friends. His own horse nickered enquiringly at his shoulder. Time to go. Hasufel accepted his weight readily, obedient as Aragorn turned his head north for the far longer ride to the pyre and kicked him into a canter. Exhilarating as it was to finally be mounted and covering ground with speed, worry still niggled at Aragorn's mind. And at the very edge of his consciousness, the sensitive seam of connection between Legolas and himself tinged with the discomfort enticed by Arod's movement. Aragorn knew it was dangerous, having an elven consciousness touching his own, but he could not deny that he valued it.

_Ai Elbereth, both of you be safe._


End file.
